


build a heart made of armour

by darthrevaan (Burning_Nightingale)



Series: Soulmarks [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Loneliness, Multi, Original Character(s), Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2017-10-25
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:35:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866126
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Nightingale/pseuds/darthrevaan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sidious destroyed the Jedi when Obi-Wan was a teenager, and he's been on the run ever since - working dead-end jobs on backwater planets, keeping his head low and trying to ignore the two sentences on his arm.</p><p>He doesn't want to know who his soulmates are - he'd only disappoint them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for coming up with this AU, and some of the things I've used - including the words of Obi-Wan's soulmarks - goes to the wonderful hamelin-born.

_14/3, 981 ARR  
_ _Kolyaa, Tetas Sector, Outer Rim_

Kolyaa is a world with far too much rain for Obi-Wan’s taste. He has hated every moment spent here.

But that doesn’t matter now. It’s time to move on again.

He doesn’t run when the first stormtroopers appear, as he knows some fugitives do. He’d be living out in Wild Space if that were the case. But when they get too thick on the ground, when they start building official garrisons, when they begin to enforce taxes and patrol the roads, then he knows it’s time to move on.

Trouble is, there aren’t many planets left in galaxy where the Empire doesn’t have a presence, these days.

He can’t go to Nal Hutta or any of the other criminal havens; the bounty on his head is so astronomically high every grunt with a blaster would be looking to cash in. He doesn’t relish the idea of scraping an existence off some rock in Wild Space, or taking his chances in the Unknown Regions.

But every time he moves on he moves closer to edge of the Outer Rim, and the number of possible hiding places dwindles. He’s already had too many close calls with the Empire; he’s resigned himself to the fact that it’s only a matter of time before they track him down.

It’s been so long since he felt safe, he can’t really remember what safe feels like. It’s been so many years since the night Qui-Gon woke him in the early hours, with a hand over his mouth and the whispered words, “Get up. Be silent. They’re coming for us.”

He was fifteen then. By his eighteenth birthday, Qui-Gon was dead, and he was alone.

It’s been twenty years since then, and he’s been alone for every single one of them. He’s used to it by now.

Kolyaa has held out against the Empire longer than most. That, Obi-Wan assumes, is mostly because of how undesirable the place is; a dingy little water world with few natural resources, he has only just been able to scrape a living here, catching fish and mending boat engines. But now Imperial might is moving in; unhappy Stormtroopers work in sluggish shifts, reluctantly building the garrison they have been assigned to man. Obi-Wan could almost feel sorry for them; after attending the Imperial Academy and dreaming of seeing the universe, getting dumped on Kolyaa, of all places, must seem like a cruel joke.

He almost sympathizes, but not enough to stop wishing each one of them would drown in the nearest lake.

He packs up his meagre possessions in the early dawn light, and sets off to the sad excuse for a spaceport. No doubt the Empire will improve and expand it, but that’s all in the future; for now it’s simply a strip of permacrete where a few dilapidated ships sit, battered by the rain, overlooked by a port master’s office that’s little more than a shed.

Obi-Wan knows the port master, Jateh, who greets him absently as he walks in. No one is warm here, especially not to Obi-Wan, who keeps himself to himself and undoubtedly projects the aura of a drifter. “Looking to leave?” Jateh says, eyeing Obi-Wan’s bag.

“Yes,” Obi-Wan says simply.

“Don’t like the Imperials landing on your doorstep, eh?” Jateh asks, giving him a sly sideways look.

Obi-Wan makes a casual, dismissive gesture. “Something like that.”

Jateh leans forward. “Listen, there’s no one leaving for a few days- er, legally, that is. If you’re not a friend of the Empire’s, though, there’s a group of folks who’re looking to head out soon as they find another crew member.”

Obi-Wan frowns slightly. “And why would joining their crew necessitate being unfriendly with the Empire?”

Jateh grins. “Well, let’s imagine they were heading out to Hutt space to get involved in some business that might, ah, not be in the Empire’s best interests…”

Taking a step forward and resting an arm on the port master’s high desk, Obi-Wan leans close and says in a low voice, “Smugglers? Pirates?”

“I reckon-” Jateh begins, then stops and takes a longer look at Obi-Wan. “You can fire a blaster, right?”

Obi-Wan pats the wrapped up bundle slung over his left shoulder; his blaster rifle is scratched up and has obviously seen better days, but it’s adequate. “Well enough.”

“Good. Right. Well, I reckon they’re pirates, though they’re not like most pirates I see. Something different ‘bout them. I guess they’re newbies, just starting out. But like I said, they’re going to Hutt space and they’ll be avoiding the Empire, so…”

Obi-Wan considers. He doesn’t want to wait, and he’s been a pirate before. Never with a bunch of newbies, but who knows, maybe they’re not as bad as Jateh thinks they are. And there’s the itch under his skin again, telling him _get out, get out_. He’s learnt not to ignore it.

“Which ship are they?”

Jateh smiles, very self-satisfied, and leads him out into the rain to the third ship along. It’s battered and old, but that’s no more than Obi-Wan expected; an old YT-1300, modified to include a powerful-looking quadlaser that hangs menacingly from the bottom of the ship. Obi-Wan has no doubt it has a twin on the hull above.

Jateh hammers on the closed ship’s ramp and yells, “Hey, open up!”

It only takes a minute. An irritated Wroonian comes down the ramp, brandishing a datapad. “We already had the argument about payment-”

Jateh holds up a hand to forestall him. “Not here about that. I’ve got a man that’s interested in being the final member of your crew.”

The Wroonian blinks, then looks Obi-Wan up and down. “Um…I mean…”

“I gave you a discount at the start, on the agreement that you’d pay me the rest when I found you the final member of your crew,” Jateh says, with the air of someone bringing up an old argument. “Well, here he is. He’s dependable, reliable, good with a blaster, everything you need.” Jateh is, of course, making this up; he and Obi-Wan aren’t even close enough that Obi-Wan can remember the man’s last name. The Wroonian still looks hesitant, and just when Obi-Wan is about to say he can find another ship, Jateh takes an aggressive step forward and snaps, “Look, kid, you’ve got two quadlasers, you need two gunners. And I know for a fact you can’t fly a YT like this in a dogfight solo, so you need a pilot and co-pilot. That’s four people, and as it stands you’ve only got three.” He spreads his hands. “I’m just looking out for you.”

The Wroonian sighs, then jerks his head at Obi-Wan. “Come on, then, get inside. I’ll get your money, sir.”

A distinct smell of damp clothes and burnt wiring hits Obi-Wan’s nose when he reaches the top of the ramp. The Wroonian has already disappeared into the depths of the ship to find money; Obi-Wan hears arguing voices for a few moments before he returns, black case in hand. He looks Obi-Wan up and down once more as he passes, but doesn’t say anything before he descends the ramp. Obi-Wan hears the money exchange hands, hears Jateh thank the Wroonian for his business and remind him that he needs to be out of the spaceport by dawn or he’ll have to pay again, and then the Wroonian returns up the ramp.

“I’m Parash,” he says as he hits the button to raise the ramp.

“Obi-Wan.” He’s used fake names in the past, but he’s dropped the practise now. The Empire will catch up with him sooner or later, so why bother?

He thinks he sees Parash’s eyes narrow for a moment, but then the moment is gone as quick as it came. “Okay, I guess you need a tour,” he says, then waves a hand down the left hand corridor. “Down there is the starboard cargo hold and the circuitry bay, nothing too interesting. This up here is Mylos and Deen’s room on the right, and the galley on the left.” He leads Obi-Wan around the circular central corridor. “My room’s here, and up there is the cockpit. This just opposite is the ladders to the gunner positions. You ever worked one of these before?” he asks suddenly, turning to look at Obi-Wan with an assessing air.

“Many times,” Obi-Wan answers, not needing to lie. The gunner positions of YT model freighters are more familiar to him than he ever though he’d be comfortable with. “I prefer bottom gun.”

“Good, because I prefer the top,” says a voice. Obi-Wan turns; a Twi’lek woman and a human man have appeared from what seems to be the lounge, and are both staring at him.

“This is Deen,” Parash says, gesturing at the Twi’lek. “And Mylos.” The man gives a little wave, smiling. Deen keeps her arms folded, not quite glaring at Obi-Wan. “Guys, this is Obi-Wan, our new crew member.”

Obi-Wan definitely doesn’t imagine it this time; Deen starts, if only very slightly, and looks over at Parash, who pretends not to notice. “So, this is the crew lounge, and the door to the medbay there; there’s an escape pod and the port cargo bay further on. But _this_ is your room.” Parash steps forward and triggers the door control, which slides open to reveal a tiny room with two thin bunks, both piled with boxes. “Sorry about the mess.” Parash steps in and slides the three boxes from the left hand bed onto the floor, making enough room for Obi-Wan to drop his bag. “We’ll have dinner in a hour or so. Make yourself at home.” With that he steps out, closing the door behind him. Obi-Wan hears quiet voices and then footsteps; they’re probably going up to cockpit so they can talk without him overhearing.

Sighing, he shoves a few more of the boxes against the far wall, making a tiny bit more space for himself on the floor, then sits down on his bunk and pulls one to him. In another life he might have worried about offending his new crewmates by poking through their things, but right now he can’t be too careful. Deen and Parash know something, he’s sure; maybe they’ve heard about his bounty. If that’s the case, then his game might finally be up.

After maybe half an hour of poking through the crates – and finding nothing but supplies, much to his relief – he feels the floor begin to vibrate, and hears the unmistakable sound of the engines powering up. He’s not sure whether this is a good or a bad thing. Either they’ve found his bounty and are taking him in, or they’ve decided to keep him on as a crewmate.

Either way, he’s in their hands now.

After another ten minutes, someone knocks on the door. Obi-Wan goes to answer it, absently wondering if he’ll find a blaster in his face when he does.

He’ll go quietly. He’s been expecting this, after all.

Instead, he finds Mylos, grinning at him and almost bouncing from foot to foot in excitement. “Would you, um, come out and talk to us for a minute?” he asks.

 _Probably ecstatic about how rich he’s soon to be_ , Obi-Wan thinks, but he nods and follows the other man to the small table in the lounge.

Parash and Deen are already sitting around it. When Obi-Wan takes his seat, Deen pushes a datapad across the table to him without speaking.

It only takes one glance to confirm what he thought; they’ve found his bounty. “Yes, alright, I’m Obi-Wan Kenobi. I won’t make a fuss, I’ll come quietly. Do you have a holding cell of some kind?” It feels almost a relief to say it. To have it over with.

The others are all staring at him with near-identical expressions of shock. “We’re not going to take you in!” Deen bursts out. “We’re going to help you!”

It takes a few moments for Obi-Wan to process what she’s just said, and still all he can get out in response is, “What?”

Parash smiles and puts a hand over his. “We’re not bounty hunters, or pirates, or whatever the port master told you. We’re the resistance. We’re the Rebellion.”

Obi-Wan is numb with shock. Is this really happening? “There’s…a resistance?” he asks slowly.

“You bet there’s a resistance,” Deen says firmly. “A small one, yeah, but a determined one. We’re recruiting wherever we can, trying to build up resources, and hitting the Empire with guerrilla attacks. It’s slow going, but we’re making progress.”

Obi-Wan feels a little shiver inside his chest; it takes a long moment for him to recognise it as longing. He never dreamed such words could be spoken, but now they have, he realizes how long he’s been waiting for someone to say them. How long he’s been subconsciously looking for a way to fight back, and how much promise the simple word ‘rebellion’ holds.

“Are we going there? To the Rebellion?”

“You think we’d find a Jedi, a _real Jedi_ , and not take him to the Rebellion?” Parash asks. “We’ll be there in a rotation.”

 _A real Jedi_. Obi-Wan can’t face telling them, right now, that his training stopped when he was fifteen, that he has barely used his Force powers in years, that his lightsaber has stayed at the bottom of his rucksack for longer still. There will be time for that, later.

 

_981 ARR  
_ _D’Qar, Ileenium system, Outer Rim_

He’d like to say he steps back into the role of Jedi Knight with ease, but it’s not so easy to forget a lifetime of habits. It’s not easy to sleep through the night – it never has been – and it’s not easy to trust the Rebels’ defences, to not check the perimeter is secure every night. He can’t leave the door to his room unlocked like the others do, and he finds, in his years of solitude, that he has lost the knack of just _talking_ to people. Bartering, bargaining, negotiating, threatening; all of these he has ample experience of. But simply sitting down and telling someone about himself, his life…

The Rebels are sympathetic. They’ve seen cases like his before; people who’ve been running so long they can’t quite settle down.

The missions help. Bringing food and supplies to communities abandoned and left destitute by the Empire, scouting enemy bases (and blowing one up – _that_ was an adventure), recruiting new members, bringing in refugees, rescuing those targeted for arrest, disrupting Imperial supply lines – all of it gives Obi-Wan a sense of purpose he hasn’t felt since those days in the Temple so long ago.

Finding Siaan also helps. She appears in the base after Obi-Wan has been there six months, an escapee of a small jail one of the Rebel cells raided. He can feel the Force in her from across the hangar bay, swirling around her like a hurricane, tinged with relief and sorrow. Command sees that she was to be transferred to a high-security prison and takes an interest, but Siaan doesn’t even know why she was arrested.

Obi-Wan takes a seat on the bench next to her at dinner, the day after she arrives, and says quietly, “I know why the Imperials arrested you.”

It takes Siaan a moment to speak; she’s obviously at loss to explain why the Rebellion’s famed Jedi Knight is talking to _her_. “Why?” she asks softly.

Obi-Wan smiles. “The Force is strong in you.”

Siaan gapes at him; and then a flash of understanding hits. “That day at the bridge…when the boxes flew…”

He doesn’t know how to train a padawan, doesn’t even know if he’s technically qualified, but he knows the Rebellion needs every advantage they can get, so he teaches Siaan, as best he can.

He falls into the rhythm of life in the Rebellion; begins to settle. He never blends – there’s always a barrier of awe and mystique that surrounds him, as a Jedi, that most people aren’t brave enough to cross – but he begins to get to know people. Begins to eat meals with company rather than by himself, to spend some of his free time socializing instead of sitting alone in his room, to attend gatherings and celebrations.

The only celebrations he never attends are the soulmate discovery parties. They remind him too much of the words that curl on his right arm, the reminder of what he’ll never have and, judging by the words themselves, what he might not even want.

He never understood the reference to an Empire when he was growing up. Most Jedi didn’t care about their soulmarks, as it was generally understood that nothing would ever come of them; Jedi were expected to make such sacrifices for the greater good, of course. But Obi-Wan would lie awake and trace the words on his arm in the moonlight; _welcome to the Empire, Obi-Wan Kenobi._ He turned them over and over in his mind, wondering what Empire the speaker could be referring to. There were no Empires in the galaxy, as far as he knew. Maybe the Empire was metaphorical? Or a nickname? He’d even speculated that it was the name of a bar or club – which might have fit with the second line of text, which said in a looping, delicate hand, _you have no idea how much we’ve wanted to meet you._ At age thirteen he had been convinced his two soulmates were greeters at some underworld bar, and he’d walk in the door one day to have both his soulmark lines parroted at him in chirpy, mechanical fake-happy tones – and then have to explain why he couldn’t be with them, being a Jedi.

Now, of course, he knows better. Now he constantly covers his arm with long sleeves and tries to put it out of his mind, avoids discussions of the topic and does everything in his power to _not think about it_. If anyone asks – and one or two do – he pretends his soulmark says something embarrassing, and people usually leave him alone.

All in all, his adjustment to life in the Rebellion isn’t smooth, but it happens. It even seems to be going well.

Until, of course, everything goes wrong, because everything always does.

 

_23/2, 982 ARR  
_ _Senis’Tak, Poltari Sector, Outer Rim_

Obi-Wan is leading a raid on a prison facility on an out of the way planet somewhere in the Outer Rim. Risky, but worth it, if they manage to rescue the former Senator the Empire’s holding there.

The operation goes to plan right up until the moment they open the cell to find it empty. It only takes a cursory glance before Obi-Wan’s partner decides, “Trap. We have to get out of here, quickly.”

Obi-Wan’s partner is a small, thick-set Twi’lek called Amn. He’s a man of few words, but he has a knack for stealth and he’s deadly in a fight. And he’s right about the setup, because the stormtroopers are waiting for them at every turn as soon as they leave the corridor. Obi-Wan steps forward, lightsaber humming to life in his hands, and for just a second he feels _alive_ , like he never has before.

They make it to the landing pad where they left their hijacked Imperial shuttle, Amn running ahead to jump start the engines while Obi-Wan keeps the stormtroopers occupied, deflecting blaster bolts as his companion runs up the ramp. He sees the stormtrooper captain hold his wrist up to his mouth; a sudden shiver runs through the Force, and in that instant he _knows_. He activates his own comm, but it’s too late; behind him their shuttle explodes in a colossal fireball, spewing out huge chunks of metal and gouts of flame. The blast throws him forward like he’s been kicked in the back by a rancor, his lightsaber spinning out of his hand, his head cracking on the permacrete. There are stormtrooper boots all around him, converging on him, but his head feels like it’s splitting open, his ears hear nothing but fuzzy ringing, and his vision is blackening at the edges…

He sinks into oblivion with only a single thought; _your number’s finally up, Kenobi._

 

_Unknown, 982 ARR  
_ _Unknown_

He wakes to an Imperial jail cell.

His head still feels like he’s been trodden on by a Bantha, so he moves carefully, turning his head gently to look around the room. Bare walls and floors, the bench he’s lying on, a tiny fresher in the corner, a door in the opposite wall. Practical, simple, efficient. And probably, he thinks morosely, the place he’s going to die.

Unless they decide on a public execution. They haven’t had one in years; maybe they’ll revive the practise just for him.

Nothing happens for a very long time. Then the door opens and a young man in a white coat appears, holding a clipboard and accompanied by two stormtroopers. He looks very nervous, but Obi-Wan regards him impassively and doesn’t move as he comes over. “How do you feel?” he asks, when he’s standing right over Obi-Wan.

“Like I was blown up by an Imperial shuttle,” Obi-Wan says tonelessly.

“Cracked skull, and concussion,” the doctor explains, taking a datapad out of his coat and examining it. “The bacta should be repairing the damage; I just need to examine it…”

Obi-Wan shrugs – inwardly wondering why they’re going to such trouble – and the doctor takes this as unspoken agreement and turns Obi-Wan’s head with a gentle grip, feeling over the packed bandages at the back. He removes them, mutters to himself, and then replaces the bacta and reties the bandages. “I’ll give you a dose of painkillers,” he says, then turns to the stormtroopers. “Are you sure he has to be moved today? He’s really in no fit state-”

“Orders from the top,” one stormtrooper says, shrugging. “Sorry, doc.”

“On second thoughts,” the doctor muses, “you’d probably be better off sedated.”

Obi-Wan stares at the ceiling and says nothing. After all, it’s not like he has any choice in the matter.

The doctor injects something into his arm, and Obi-Wan floats gratefully back into darkness.

When he wakes next, hushed voices are conversing just above his head.

“Are you _sure_?” one asks. “All Jedi are supposed to be brought before the Emperor-”

“I’ve seen his handwriting enough times, I _know_ it’s his. We have to take him to Vader first.”

Obi-Wan thought he was apathetic, but the thought of appearing before either the Emperor or his apprentice Vader makes a cold pit form in his stomach. And…handwriting? He feels like that should mean something, something important, but his brain is too fuzzy to work out what.

“But…a Jedi? I mean, how is that even going to work? Wouldn’t it be better to-”

“I don’t know, and frankly, I don’t care, but Vader will. Authorise his transfer.”

The first speaker sighs. “Fine, it’s done. But you’re responsible if anything goes wrong. I’m not going to be the one explaining to the Emperor why we broke protocol.”

“ _If_ anything goes wrong, I’ll handle it,” the second assures him. Then, sharply, “Is that an upkick in his vitals? I think he’s waking up.”

There’s a hiss, and a prick on Obi-Wan’s arm, and he’s unconscious again.

When he next struggles back to consciousness, it feels like he’s lying on a cloud. The surface under him is so soft he just wants to sink back into it, close his eyes and drift off again. It feels like such an effort, to be awake…

But he pulls himself into wakefulness, because – unless he’s now in some paradisal afterlife – lying on a bed this soft is _very_ strange. And with the Empire, strange is dangerous.

The room he finds himself looking around is luxurious, but small; from the rumble of engines he can feel under him, he must be on a starship. Nothing, from the large bed to the tasteful décor, makes any sense. If Obi-Wan had to guess, he’d say he was in a stateroom on a luxury passenger liner – not that he’s ever seen the inside of one, to know for sure. He flops back down flat onto the bed and closes his eyes, head spinning. _Maybe I_ should _have gone to Wild Space_ , he thinks bitterly, because surely nothing else in the galaxy could be _this_ weird.

Then the door opens, and a stormtrooper comes through into the room, approaching the bed. Obi-Wan doesn’t have time to pretend to be asleep, so he stares silently instead. “Are you feeling better, sir?” she asks, her helmet tilting questioningly.

“I suppose,” Obi-Wan mutters.

“I can bring the doctor if-”

“No, no, I’m fine.”

“Good.” The stormtrooper nods once, decisively, “Then you’re ready for visitors?”

Obi-Wan’s stomach clenches; ‘visitors’ could mean anything, bad or good.

 _Might as well get it over with_.

“Yes. I’m ready.”

Without saying another word, the stormtrooper turns and goes back out the door, leaving Obi-Wan alone and decidedly uneasy. He draws in deep breaths, trying to stay calm. _Probably best not to think about the worst that could happen._

He looks around the room again as he waits, trying to glean some clue from his surroundings, but apart from the lack of a door control on his side, nothing seems unusual. _Perhaps this is the Emperor’s idea of a cruel joke_ , Obi-Wan thinks despondently, sinking back into the plush bed and staring up at the ceiling.

It’s another few minutes before the door opens again, and Obi-Wan can hardly muster the energy to look up. Why bother? Surely he’s dead anyway, no matter whose fancy starliner he’s sitting in.

Levering himself upright confirms his fears. _Lord Vader_. Though he’s supposed to be the Emperor’s secret weapon, the Rebels managed to hack enough archive footage to get pictures of his face and spread them among their operatives. Everyone had the same directive; if you see him, you run.

Obi-Wan doesn’t feel up to running right now, so he has to settle for just glaring at the dark-cloaked figure, who stares back with ferocious intensity. They don’t speak; despite his self-assurance that he wouldn’t be afraid to die, Obi-Wan feels his heart flip-flop in his chest. One blow from the lightsaber on Vader’s hip would end it all.

Then another figure steps into the room. She too is instantly recognisable; the Senator formerly known as Padmé Amidala, now notorious as Lady Vader, the public face of the Emperor’s secret weapon. She smiles, and despite her beauty, the expression makes Obi-Wan uneasy.

Still, there’s no need to be rude. “Lord Vader,” he says, keeping his tone level and excruciatingly polite, “Lady Vader.” He nods to each of them in turn.

They look at each other for a long moment. Then Vader turns back and smiles, an expression that promises pain rather than comfort.

“Welcome to the Empire, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he says smoothly.

Beside him, Lady Vader’s smile widens. “You have no idea how much we’ve wanted to meet you.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation, but not an answer for that cliffhanger *mwahahaha*
> 
> Without further ado - FLASHBACK EPISODE

_26/7, 978 ARR  
Makem Te, Nilgaard Sector, Outer Rim_

 “Transponder data indicates target neutralised; confirm?”

Anakin deactivates his lightsaber and nudges the corpse with one toe. “Confirm, command,” he says into his headpiece.

“Confirm; mission accomplished. Nice work Commander. Sending the shuttle for you now.”

“Belay that, command.”

“Sir?”

“I have another mission to complete. Details classified. Captain Parasum should have been notified.”

There is a pause, then; “Confirmed, Commander. Mission authorized.”

“This mission is comms dark, confirm?”

“Confirm, comms going dark on your signal.”

“Roger that. Comms blackout ends when I signal for extraction. Commander Vader going dark.”

“Confirm. See you on the other side, Commander. Command out.”

And with that, Anakin Skywalker is alone.

The vast expanse of the Tract of Makam Te, the enormous burial ground of the Swokes Swokes, stretches out into the distance before him, a landscape neatly divided into eight by eight squares with ornately carved _stela_ columns rising from them. Not exactly a perfect place to hide, but Mokka thought his gods would protect him.

Anakin leaves him where he fell. If he wants to find the embrace of his gods, where is better than here?

His destination is easy enough to spot, as it’s the only building for miles around. The walls rise sharp and sudden from the ground in a deep red rock, sheer until they reach the roof that ascends upward in right-angled steps; it looks like a cross between a cathedral and a pyramid. Anakin encounters no one on his journey; the Tract is hundreds of miles wide, and the hot, waterless environment combined with the constant threat of attack from the vicious, serpent-like schinga makes it an unattractive destination for all but the most hardened pilgrims.

The schinga have avoided Anakin thus far. Apparently their sense of self-preservation is more developed than the sentients they share their planet with.

It takes him two hours to get to the Temple. Distance is deceptive in Tract, where everything looks so similar. Anakin, with memories of the desert heat of his home planet swirling in his head, keeps his eyes fixed on the Temple and plods determinedly onward.

The old Swokes Swokes sitting in the Temple doorway – Anakin assumes they are a monk, though he can’t tell whether they’re male or female – watches him curiously as he ascends the steps. “I don’t think I have ever seen a human here before,” they comment as Anakin reaches the top step.

He gives them his best smile. “Am I forbidden?”

They wave an inviting hand. “As long as you are respectful, no. You are an unusual visitor, is all.”

“Thank you.” They nod, watching him as he enters through the huge, intricately carved doorway.

There are several more monks inside; Anakin can feel their Force signatures moving around, but the room is so huge and complex that he can’t actually see them. Swokes Swokes aren’t known for their grasp of subterfuge, but he is still cautious enough to approach the center of the room, keeping up the image of an adventurous traveller straying off the beaten track as he feigns interest in the central altar. He can sense no one but a small group of monks in a secluded chamber off to his right, and two more whom he can just about see down by the huge mural at the front of the Temple, lighting candles. There is no one else.

Satisfied he will not be seen, he begins his search.

Master Sidious said that the artefact’s container would be marked by an ancient Sith symbol, which Anakin has drawn on his forearm, just in case. He pushes up the dark fabric of his sleeve as he inspects the walls around the alcoves, looking for a match, but the complicated artistry of the symbol seems like it would stick out among the simple, striking designs of the Swokes Swokes. So far there’s nothing.

He makes a circle around the Temple walls, peering into each alcove, searching every offshoot corridor and hidden nook he can find. There’s nothing else for it; if he can’t find the artefact he might as well not go back at all.

Just when he’s beginning to consider asking the monks if they’ll allow him to stay the night in the Temple, he spots it. On a wall, hidden away behind huge pillars, etched into the stone in a careful hand and outlined with black paint. His moment of elation is short-lived; it was supposed to be on a container, not a wall. If he has to break the wall…

He frowns and rolls up his sleeves. He’ll do what he has to do; he just has to work out a way of doing it _quietly_.

Anakin scans the Temple once with his senses, confirming that there’s no one nearby. Outside the sun is sinking below the horizon; its golden light is reflected on the walls from the high windows above, and the monks seem to have taken this as their cue to disappear into a room somewhere below his feet, probably for the evening meal. Good – there won’t be anyone to disturb him.

He stands facing the symbol and closes his eyes, reaching out into the wall with his Force senses, willing them to show him whatever might be hidden. Mentally he feels along the rough edges of the bricks, looking for purchase. There’s something there, hidden within the wall, in the gaps in the stonework…and behind it, an empty space.

He reaches into that hidden space and something _reaches_ back, trying to dig its fingers into his mind. Anakin breathes out and lets his mental shields tighten, making them flat and smooth; whatever it is slides off them like water off the back of a seabird, unable to find purchase.

Without that distraction the trigger for the opening mechanism suddenly leaps forward into Anakin’s mind, and he twitches his fingers, applying pressure. With a rumble and the rasp of stone sliding over stone, the wall swings forward a little way, revealing a space behind it. Inside is a simple box of black wood, the same symbol that marked the wall carved onto its lid; an eye surrounded by a pattern of linked squares. The Dark presence he encountered is inside, brooding.

Anakin picks it up and steps back, applying pressure with the Force again to slide the wall back into place. The box fits easily in his outspread palms; he tucks it away inside his bag and exits the Temple. The monk who was there earlier has disappeared, and Anakin is unobserved as he makes his way down the steps to the open plaza in front of the Temple. Looking up into the darkened sky, he touches the send and receive button on his headpiece.

“This is Commander Vader to _Dauntless_ , officially lifting comms blackout. Do you read, Command?”

After a moment, a voice answers; a different comms officer from the one who spoke to him this afternoon. “This is _Dauntless;_ receiving loud and clear, Commander.”

“I’m signaling for extraction at my coordinates; turning on my tracking beacon now. LZ is a plaza outside a large temple, should be easy to spot. Mission complete and target secure, repeat, mission complete and target secure.”

“Confirm mission complete, Commander. Shuttle on its way now. Command out.”

Anakin watches the sky, the bag weighing heavy on his back. He knows what’s inside, even if Sidious might not think he does; a holocron.

 _This will be interesting_ , he thinks wryly, watching a small dot of light grow brighter in the eastern sky as the shuttle from _Dauntless_ comes closer. 

 

_29/7, 978 ARR  
Coruscant, Corusca sector, Core_

Late at night, the city is always the most beautiful. Glittering, the harsh edges softened.

Not beautiful enough that Padmé doesn’t wish for home, but almost.

“How long will you be gone?” she asks.

Mon is packing the last of her bags. “Only a few days. I have to meet-”

Padmé holds up a hand. “It’s probably better if you don’t talk about it.”

The look Mon gives her is part sympathy, part frustration. “Nothing will get better if we ignore it.”

“And nothing will get better if you get yourself killed in the name of justice, either.”

Mon smiles a little. “We’ve had this argument too many times.”

“Far too many.” Padmé comes over and takes her friend’s hands. “Just promise me you’ll be careful?”

“I’m always careful,” Mon smiles. She leans over and touches a button on her desk. “Come on, I have to go. If you’re still going to accompany me to the spaceport…”

Padmé motions toward the door. “Lead the way.”

Mon’s official diplomatic ship is waiting on the landing pad. As they step out of the shuttle Mon’s guards gather close – including someone dressed in a long dark robe instead of the official Chandrilan guard’s armour. Mon seems surprised to see whoever this person is; they lean close together, and Padmé waits politely at a distance until they finish their conversation, though she’s dying to know what they said and who this person is. What kind of trouble has Mon got herself into now?

Whoever it is, Mon makes no mention of her as they start out toward the ship. “I expect I won’t be back for at least a week,” she says, sighing. “This dispute between the miner’s guild and-”

She never finishes the sentence, because at that moment the cloaked figure yells, “Get down!” and pushes her to the decking. Padmé has only a moment to register the start of a very, _very_ loud noise, before something hits her _hard_ from above, and suddenly she’s tumbling head over heels, thrown backward by the force of what she will later register was a huge explosion.

For now, though, she’s stunned and completely disorientated; her return to coherent thought finds her flat on her back, her head ringing, staring up at the dull orange glow of Coruscant’s sky.

 _What in the name of…_ she thinks. Someone groans beside her. Startled, she sits up, spotting a large, vaguely human shape lying on the decking next to her. She scrambles to her knees and turns them over; a young man’s pained and slightly confused face is staring up at her. Before she can say anything, he grins and, in a slightly slurred voice, asks, “Are you an angel?”

Nothing, not even another explosion, could be more disorientating than hearing those exact words at this moment. “ _What?_ ” she yelps. _How- right_ now _?_

The young man’s eyes slip closed, his grin widening. “Called it,” he mutters.

 _This is not happening_. Convincing herself that she hasn’t just heard one set of her soulmark words from her rescuer is the only way she’s going to be able to deal with this right now. A sudden, more pressing fear grips her; Mon.

“Mon!” she yells, standing up. Bodies are strewn all over where she was standing only half a minute ago; the other side of the landing pad is awash in a sea of burning debris. She can already hear the scream of sirens, emergency vehicles coming closer.

Then a figure stands from among the bodies; the cloaked woman. She reaches a hand to the ground and pulls Mon Mothma up to stand beside her, and Padmé’s entire being floods with hot relief. _She’s alive. She’s safe_.

Beside her, the young man – who, now she thinks about it, is probably concussed – has also risen unsteadily to his feet. “That’s a problem,” he mutters, looking in the same direction she is.

Padmé half turns and is about to ask him what, exactly, is the problem in her friend being alive, when he reaches under his cloak and pulls out a long, silver cylinder.

She has about half a second to wonder what it is before he ignites the lightsaber.

Her heart almost stops in her chest. _Vader_.

Or, well, probably. She knows Vader is a young man with a red lightsaber, but she also knows the Emperor is said to have other beings who wield similar weapons. It could be one of them.

But it could be him. And that is a _huge_ problem.

It turns into a bigger problem when the cloaked woman throws back her hood and ignites her own lightsaber.

 _Please tell me this is not happening_ , Padmé thinks, to no one in particular, because this very definitely _is_ happening, and she is caught right in the middle of it.

The woman is Mirialan, her green skin and a smattering of tattoos across her nose lit up by the blue glow of her lightsaber. She motions to Mon, obviously telling her to go, but Mon pulls at her arm. While they fight, Padmé feels a hand land on her shoulder. “Go,” the man who is probably Vader tells her. “Get out of here. Get to safety.”

“You’re hurt,” Padmé tells him reflexively, even though his concussion is about the last thing she cares about right now.

Probably-Vader laughs. “Won’t stop me. Now, get out of here.” He steps past her, then turns to look over his shoulder and grins, widely, almost roguishly. “You and I are going to have a lot to talk about when I get back.”

 _That_ , Padmé thinks, as he runs to meet the Mirialan woman, who pushes Mon aside and leaps to meet him, _is absolutely certain_.

 

_30/7, 978 ARR  
Coruscant, Corsuca Sector, Core_

The bombing makes every single news channel.

No one seems aware that Padmé was there; the footage they show on the holonet is all of the aftermath, night scenes of the explosion surrounded by emergency craft or scenes of the destruction in the daylight. According to the reports, everyone aboard died along with several staff who were stationed around the platform, and the Chandrilan senator is still unaccounted for.

Padmé isn’t sure what happened. The lightsaber battle was fast and violent and incredibly, unexpectedly _loud_ ; she never thought all the humming and slashing would make so much noise. She remembers a uniformed paramedic grabbing her and pulling her backward, far away from the twirling figures and their red and blue beams of light, back behind containers where they bundled her into an ambulance and got her away as fast as possible.

She didn’t see what happened to Mon.

Now she’s pacing up and down in her apartment, Dormé lurking in the shadows by the door, ready to intervene if necessary.

And on top of everything else, apparently possibly-Vader is now her soulmate.

She resists the urge to rub the words on her wrist. _Lady Vader_. She has always wondered how they might come true, but _this_ was not one of the scenarios she imagined.

Eventually 3P0 totters into the room and announces, “There is a man waiting in the hallway who wonders if he might have an audience with you, my lady.”

Padmé stops and turns a suspicious look on him. “Who?”

“He declined to give a name, my lady, but he did give me several high security access codes. When I pointed out to him that he could use said access codes to override my programming and allow himself in, he also declined. I believe he felt this would be improper.”

 _Well, at least he’s not barging his way in here_. “Let him in,” she says.

Her suspicion proves right; the man from the previous night enters the room behind 3P0 when he returns, and bows to her. “Senator. Thank you for inviting me inside.”

She nods, then motions to Dormé and 3P0. “Leave us, please.”

Dormé casts her one long look before leaving; Padmé knows from that one expression that her handmaiden thinks this is a bad idea, and will be on standby in the next room in case Padmé needs her. Not that she will listen in on this conversation, of course.

When they’re alone, Padmé doesn’t give him a chance to speak before she demands, “What happened to Mon Mothma?”

His face takes on a moue of distaste. “She got away.”

The knot in Padmé’s stomach loosens; whatever else happened, Mon got away. “You are Vader, correct?”

He looks surprised. “I thought you knew that.”

“I suspected.” So it is true. The words seem to burn on her wrist, in concert with the _‘are you an angel?’_ looped on the back of her neck. “Why did you try to kill her?”

“Wasn’t my job. It was sloppy, poorly executed.” He gives her a long look. “You’re lucky I decided to check up on it, though. That Jedi might not have been able to protect you all from the blast.”

“So she was a Jedi.” Padmé had…she didn’t know if she could call her emotion _hope_ , but it was nearly that.

“A poorly trained amateur, but yes, a Jedi.” Vader sighs. “I have _no idea_ how a senator like Mothma got mixed up with her, let alone how she got onto Coruscant.”

“Everyone knows Mon had ties to dissident elements.” Padmé sits down and runs a hand through her loose hair. “I _told her_ to be careful…”

Vader moves a step or two closer. “That’s…not actually what I came here to talk about.”

“Did you kill the Jedi?” Padmé asks, not looking at him, and not really ready to face the _other_ topic.

“No. She got away.”

 _Not much use, are you?_ Padmé thinks, but manages to keep the thought to herself.  

“Look, I don’t want…” Vader sighs. “I don’t want to put you in danger. I don’t want you to get mixed up in Palpatine because of me.”

Padmé barks out a humourless laugh. “I’m a senator. I’m already _quite_ mixed up in Palpatine.”

“…more mixed up, then.”

For a moment, Padmé stares at her hands, curled up in her lap. Then she looks up into his eyes. “What’s your name? Your real one?”

He doesn’t ask how she knows it’s not Vader; just says, clearly and without a hint of hesitation, “Anakin.”

Maybe she shouldn’t. Maybe this is manipulative.

But this is also Palpatine’s right hand man, and now he’s her _soulmate_. She has a chance to get close to him like no one else does or ever will have. If he could be convinced that the Empire is wrong…

“You’re mine now, Anakin,” she says slowly, standing. “We’ll just have to make the best of it.”

There’s a look in his eyes that suggests he’s very, very eager to do just that.

 

 _27/2, 982 ARR  
The_Faith’s Bounty, _in orbit above Commenor, Rachuk sector, Colonies_

“Now, _this_ ,” Anakin says, appreciation evident in every note of his voice, “Is a pretty ship.” He rubs the silk of a wall hanging between his fingers. “Interior décor leaves a little to be desired, but otherwise…” He turns to look at Padmé. “What’d you do, threaten to destroy someone’s entire family name?”

She watches him from her position on the bed, smiling. “Nothing so drastic,” she assures, “But the right names, in the right ears…”

“As always,” he says with a sly wink.

“Nothing but the best for our visitor.”

“Yeah, our _Jedi_.” Anakin sighs heavily. “You know, I was hoping finding our third might _not_ be stressful.”

“Do you live in the same galaxy I do?” Padmé asks drily.

“Sometimes I manage to forget I’m its personal punching bag.”

“Can’t imagine what that’s like.” When he remains silent, she gets up off the bed, leaving the datapads and notes behind, and stands next to him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You’re more worried about this then you’re letting on.”

“I kill Jedi. I don’t save them.”

Padmé sighs. “There aren’t many Jedi left. Maybe, he’s not really…I mean, maybe he never knew much about it.” When Anakin doesn’t respond, she adds, “Not many of the proper Jedi take the risk of joining the Rebels nowadays.”

“That’s because there aren’t many Jedi left, full stop,” Anakin snaps. Then he sighs again, and says in a small voice, “He’s going to hate me.”

“You can’t pre-judge-”

“It’s not a question of pre-judging. It’s a question of _knowing_.” Anakin rubs the spot on his upper arm where ‘Lord Vader’ curls on his skin, absently, as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it.

“But you don’t _know_.”

“I know he’s not going to kriffing dance for joy,” Anakin says darkly.

Padmé takes Anakin’s face in her hands and makes him look at her. “Look at us. We made it work.” When he begins to protest, she shakes her head. “You _know_ we’re different, Ani.” _You don’t know how different quite yet, but you’re not an idiot. You know_. “But we make it work. And we’re going to continue to make it work, whatever it takes.”

“It’s going to be different,” he warns her.

She smiles. “Not different enough.”

At that moment, a voice comes over the comm. “Lord Vader, sir? The prisoner is awake and prepared to receive visitors.”

“Showtime,” Padmé says, excited despite herself.

“This is _not_ going to go well,” Anakin says darkly.

“Don’t say that, Ani,” Padmé says, walking over to the door. “We’ve found him. It can only get better from there.”

Anakin sighs. “I admire your endless sense of optimism.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hamelin-born and I are still making ourselves sad with ideas for this verse, so probably expect more in the near future!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The cliffhanger is no longer a cliffhanger! Hopefully this is satisfying for everyone ;)

_27/2, 982 ARR  
The _ Faith’s Bounty _, in orbit above Commenor, Rachuk Sector, Colonies_

Fate does not give Obi-Wan the (admittedly debateable) dignity of fainting or dying of a sudden heart attack at that exact moment, so all he can do is say, “What?”

For a moment no one in the room moves. Then Lord Vader says, “Er.”

“This is not. Kriffing. Happening,” Obi-Wan snaps, and flops backward onto the bed. “I’ve had enough. I’m ready to go to the Emperor’s torture cell now, please.”

There is a moment of silence, then a hushed flurry of whispers, in which he can distinctly make out the words, “I _told_ you-”

Then Lady Vader says, “You’re not going to the Emperor. You’re with us now.”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “Yes, now I’m your-” But he can’t get the word out; it chokes in his throat. “ _That_ ,” he settles for. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

There’s another moment of silence. “We’ve been looking for you a long time,” Vader says, a hint of anger under his calm tone.

“I stopped looking for _you_ the moment the Empire _killed my family_ ,” Obi-Wan snaps, staring determinedly at the ceiling.

“This isn’t about the Empire or the Rebellion, this is about us,” Vader says, “We’re willing to forgive your ties to the Rebellion-”

Obi-Wan can’t help himself; he sits up suddenly and glares at the other man. “Oh, you are? How generous of you! Unfortunately, I find myself unable to forgive all the people you’ve murdered, all the planets you’ve ruined and destroyed, all the people your _glorious Empire_ has crushed into the dust under its heels while _you_ sat back and did nothing!”

Vader visibly grits his teeth. “We’re _destined-_ ”

“I don’t care!” Obi-Wan shouts. “I don’t care about destiny! All _fate_ has ever done is screw me over!”

Lady Vader steps between them, her hands held up. “Stop,” she says, her tone calm and reasonable. “Anakin, don’t be obtuse; obviously Obi-Wan is going to hate the Empire. But Palpatine destroyed his life, if we just explain what we’re doing…”

“He won’t believe us,” Vader snaps.

“And I won’t care,” Obi-Wan says, folding his arms, “Imperial power politics don’t interest me. You’re all as bad as each other.”

Lady Vader turns to look at him, a coolness in her gaze. “I thought the Jedi were famed for seeking the truth,” she says cryptically.

“I suppose the Emperor killed them all too early for me to learn that lesson,” Obi-Wan shoots back, holding her eyes.

“You should be grateful,” Vader snaps, “If we hadn’t intercepted you, you’d be with _him_ right now.”

“That’s a thought,” Obi-Wan says mockingly, “Maybe I _am_ in the Emperor’s torture chambers right now, and this is all an elaborate ruse to mess with my mind.”

Vader hisses in frustration, but it’s his wife’s expression Obi-Wan watches. There is something in her eyes, in her face, that he cannot read; she’s clearly thinking something as she scans his face, but he cannot tell what. There are walls of iron around her mind, mental shields that resist his probing, strong even though she is only very faintly Force-sensitive. Skilled and determined, then; there is more to her than meets the eye.

“That’s enough for today,” she says decisively, and takes Vader’s arm. “We’ll come back later. If you need anything, use the call button on the bedside.” Obi-Wan watches as they leave the room, neither turning to look at him.

He lets himself fall backward and lies silently on the bed for a long time, trying to convince himself that this isn’t as bad as it seems. _You knew they were going to be Empire_ , he rationalises, _why does it matter_ who _they are?_

It doesn’t. Or rather, it shouldn’t.

But it does, because no matter how much he argues with himself, he can’t help but feel life is screwing him over yet again. The Vaders are his kriffing soulmates? Does the universe really hate him _that_ much?

At least torture he would understand. But this…what are they going to do to him, here, on this glorified pleasure barge?

The answer, as it turns out, is nothing.

 

_29/2, 982 ARR  
The _ Faith’s Bounty _, hyperspace, en route to Naboo_

“This is stupid,” Anakin snaps, “We can’t hide him on Naboo.”

Padmé fights the urge to snap or roll her eyes. Anakin has returned from each of their hostile conversations with Obi-Wan in a fouler and fouler mood, and it’s beginning to wear on her. “No, but we can’t hide him with this ship, either,” she points out, in her dangerously-patient voice. “It’s too flashy and I’m almost certain Palpatine has it marked. We need something we can trust.”

Anakin seems to recognise her tone, and simmers down a little. “Where are we taking him, then?”

“This ship is probably tapped,” Padmé points out. 

Anakin scowls, but drops it. “Even if we hide him, Sidious still knows we have a Jedi _and_ that we’re conspiring to keep him.”

“I already know Palpatine knows about him. He knew as soon as Obi-Wan was taken into Imperial custody.” She carefully doesn’t mention _how_ she knows; she almost wants Sidious to listen to this conversation, and puzzle over that. “And he would have realized Obi-Wan had been diverted when he didn’t show up in time, which would implicate someone in a conspiracy to keep a Jedi from him – and who’s a more obvious candidate than you? Even if you _hadn’t_ done it, he would think you were involved. He probably thinks you want to train an apprentice and overthrow him.”

“Right…and where in any of this is the thing that keeps him from killing me?”

“For a start, he’d have to get someone else to do his dirty work-” Padmé starts.

“And he wants to find Obi-Wan, too,” Anakin realises.

“Exactly,” Padmé says, pleased. “He’ll try to discover through his own means where we took Obi-Wan, first, so we should have some time.”

“Unless he decides to just torture the answer out of me. Or _you._ ” Anakin turns worried eyes on her.

“I’m not going to know. I’ll be staying on Naboo, and you’re going to hide him. After that, we’ll just have to hope Palpatine wants two whole, sane Jedi for his collection.”

“So my possible torture is dependent on how patient he feels? Wonderful.”

“Don’t complain,” Padmé smiles, “I’m giving you at least a week alone with our third, after all.”

Anakin blows out a frustrated breath. “You say that like it’s some kind of treat.”

“You have to be more patient with him, Ani. He isn’t going to trust us overnight; he may not trust us at all until we _show_ him we have the galaxy’s best interests at heart.”

“Not handing him over to the Emperor was a pretty big win in the galaxy’s favour.”

“Yes, but it’s going to take a lot more than that. He’s not going to trust us because we tell him we can be trusted, and he’s not bound to like us just because fate says he should. We have to _work_ at it.”

“Fine.” Anakin waves a hand, dismissing the point, but Padmé knows he will stew over this conversation. Ponder her words, hopefully. “So I can take him wherever I want?”

“Just find someone safe, out of the Emperor’s reach,” Padmé says, “And make sure he’s comfortable. Then come back; we have to gauge the Emperor’s response.”

A faint smile touches Anakin’s lips. “If I disappear without a trace, he’s probably mad,” he says jokingly.

Fear clutches Padmé’s heart; they’re taking a risk, and they both know it. “I’d get you back,” she promises, trying to sound humorous, but it comes out just sincere.

He takes her hand. “I know you would. Palpatine’s Hands wouldn’t stand a chance.”

 

_32/2, 982 ARR  
The _ Hand of Alenthi _, hyperspace, heading unknown_

They had changed ships in the dead of night; stormtroopers had escorted Obi-Wan down the pleasure barge’s ramp into a hot darkness full of the fragrance of flowers and the calls of night birds, illuminated only by the running lights of the ship behind him and the smaller one in front. He got a reasonably good look at it as they marched across the strip of permacrete where both were parked. An average-sized cruiser, chrome-plated, with elegant lines that made him think of Nubian design. His suspicions were confirmed when he was escorted aboard; the stormtroopers left him in a comfortable but not extravagant room, and a few minutes later a droid entered, welcoming him aboard the RNSF _Hand of Alenthi_ and asking if it could be of any service to him.

Considering Lady Vader’s background, he probably shouldn’t have been surprised to be on a vessel of the Royal Naboo Star Fleet; the hot planet they’d landed on might even have been the Senator’s home planet.

Now he is alone in his room, as he has been for the past day or so. He’s explored every angle of it, every tiny corner, looking for listening devices or hidden cameras, but found nothing. He can tell he isn’t alone on the ship; aside from Vader’s Dark presence, there are four other bright points of light within the Force. Crew members, Obi-Wan assumes. None of them feel like Lady Vader, though he hasn’t known her long enough to tell for sure. He has a feeling, though, that she stayed behind when they made their stop.

He’s meditating when something changes; as he pulls himself out of the trance, he realizes that the hyperspace drive has powered down. They must have reached their destination.

A thrill of nerves runs through him; where are they? And what’s waiting for him there?

It takes about another half hour and the bumps and jolts of atmospheric re-entry before the ship touches down, and the droid returns, bearing a change of clothes. “It is hot on Alum’Ta, master,” it says as it puts them down gently on Obi-Wan’s bed. “You will want something lighter.”

“Alum’Ta?” Obi-Wan questions.

“This planet,” the droid clarifies. “Now, please change quickly, master. Lord Vader wishes to disembark as soon as possible.”

“I’m sure,” Obi-Wan mutters, but he changes.

The clothes the droid has brought are simple; a tight top without sleeves, a lighter shirt to go over it, and long trousers made of a tough, light material. “Best not to expose too much skin on this planet,” the droid chatters as he changes, “Inhospitable plant life abounds.”

When he’s done the droid leads him out into the corridors to the top of the ship’s ramp, where Vader is waiting. He says nothing, just nods, then walks out of the ship. The droid and Obi-Wan follow.

Alum’Ta is stiflingly hot, the air heavy and humid, a huge jungle grown wild and rampant all around them. The ship has come down in one of the few clear spots in the jungle canopy, but the set of buildings Vader leads them to have clearly been positioned to take advantage of the tree cover. Huge native plants spread their leaves in a thick roof over the rough square of the complex; the buildings have been constructed from the same dark wood as the trees, to blend in; the paths between them are narrow alleyways between huge growths of plant life that have been left almost untouched, growing up around the unnatural structures to provide a measure of camouflage. There are five large buildings in total; four look like houses, one like some kind of stable. On one tree there is a pulley and basket system that stretches upward to a platform above, half-hidden in the upper foliage.

A secret hideaway; Obi-Wan thinks with a pang of hidden Rebel bases.

Vader takes them to the main building; a long veranda runs the length of it, and inside the rooms are dark and slightly cooler than outside. Waiting in the middle of the large main room are four people of a species Obi-Wan has never seen before; the natives of this planet, he supposes. They are humanoid, with skin dappled green and brown, long limbs, four joints on each of their fingers and three on their toes. They are all wearing skin-tight bodysuits in the same dappled colours of their skin, so well-blended that Obi-Wan almost doesn’t notice at first, along with large cloaks of brown and green that look like they have been purposefully tattered at the hem. If they share human physical standards, three are female and one is male. They bow respectfully, but don’t speak. 

“These are the Tymin, the native people,” Vader says, “They can’t speak Basic, but they can write it. Ooloe is their leader.” The Tymin in front bows again. “They’ll look after you while you’re here.” He walks away, and the droid motions Obi-Wan to follow him, leaving the four Tymin behind. Vader weaves his way through the plant life, along the small path that leads to another of the buildings. It is identical to the first building, just a little smaller. “Your home,” Vader says, stopping on the veranda, “The whole building is yours. You have freedom to move around the complex, as well, but don’t go beyond the boundary fence. The Tymin will keep you in; they can be very persuasive. I-33 will be staying here as well, to look after you.”

“I’m a prisoner,” Obi-Wan says flatly.

“The Tymin will be insulted if you say that. Best to call yourself their guest.”

“Why are they working for you, anyway? Is the Empire threatening to destroy their jungle?” Obi-Wan asks acidly.

Vader glares at him, though without much heat. “They’re old friends.”

They both lapse into silence. Obi-Wan is beginning to sweat uncomfortably in the heat; I-33 wasn’t wrong about that. Eventually Obi-Wan asks, “Are you leaving?”

Vader opens his mouth, then closes it again. Obviously he has something he wants to say, but he looks as if he’s chewing on the words, unable to let them out of his mouth in a form that pleases him.

Because he can’t help himself – and because his impulse control is sitting at around zero right now – Obi-Wan beats him to the punch. “I’m curious. What _did_ the Empire do to you that made you love them so much?”

“They gave me a purpose,” Anakin says quietly. “A family.”

The answer brings Obi-Wan up short. A _family_?

The silence lengthens again, Obi-Wan turning the idea of Vader and _family_ around and around in his head. It makes him incredibly uncomfortable; it takes him a few minutes to realize this is because it makes him see Vader as _human_.

He turns away. “My family is _dead_ , and I have the Empire to thank for that.”

“So you keep saying.” Vader sounds angry again.

“ _It bears repeating_ ,” Obi-Wan spits.

He can feel anger and frustration spilling out of Vader in hot waves. “I’m _trying_ not to argue with you,” he says.

“Keep trying. You’re the only one who is.” Obi-Wan looks at him over his shoulder. “Are you going?”

Vader glares at him for a silent moment, then turns and storms out of the house without a word.

 

_35/2, 982 ARR  
Alum’Ta, Wild Space_

Obi-Wan spends the first few days alone. He will not admit to himself that he is sulking, but that is probably the most accurate descriptor for his behaviour. The Tymin come and give him food at meal times, and I-33 offers to translate for him – they cannot speak Basic because they cannot make sound at all, I-33 has explained, but they have a language composed of body movements and hand signs – but he declines. He doesn’t want to talk to any friend of Vader’s right now, no matter how hospitable.

I-33 follows him insistently until Obi-Wan manages to wrangle an executive command list out of him, and promptly gives the one that halts his ‘constant escort’ function. After that he stays in Obi-Wan’s house, engaged in functions such as cleaning, bringing drinks, and greeting guests – the sum total of whom are the four Tymin, but I-33 is, like every protocol droid, true to his name.

The Tymin are Ooloe, Haaum, Siskir, and Etu; I-33 provides their names and descriptions of their jobs when Obi-Wan asks. Ooloe, their leader, coordinates their movements, makes decisions and has the final say on all matters. Haaum is their hunter; often accompanied by Ooloe, she keeps them stocked with the strange animals that populate Alum’Ta’s thick jungle. Siskir is their messenger, and is away more often than not, taking and bringing back communications from the other groups of Tymin who dwell deeper in the jungle. Etu is the youngest, and Tymin tradition dictates that most of the menial chores, like washing clothes, cleaning the houses and cooking the food, fall to her. This is, I-33 explains, a traditional step on a young Tymin’s journey, a necessary period of service before they can specialise into a field like hunting, diplomacy or science.

On the third day, Ooloe comes to Obi-Wan’s house, holding a datapad. Obi-Wan remembers what Vader said about the Tymin being able to write, and has guessed her intentions before I-33 translates her hand signals. “She asks if you will talk to her, master.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan says, and they sit on cushions at the knee high table in what I-33 calls the guest room. “What would you like to talk about?” Obi-Wan asks.

Ooloe taps a few buttons and makes the datapad project a holographic display between the two of them; then she types. _We notice you are not happy_ , she says.

“Not because of any failing on your part,” Obi-Wan says quickly.

_We know. You are not happy because you are not here of your free will_.

Obi-Wan isn’t sure what to say; Vader implied that admitting he was a prisoner would insult the Tymin, which would be poor repayment for their hospitality. But Ooloe doesn’t give him time to speak; she keeps typing. _Vader tried to hide it from us, but he brought you here against your will._

Obi-Wan can’t help but ask, “Do you like Vader?”

Ooloe’s lips twist, a very human expression of consternation. _It is best to court his favour_ , she writes after a few moments of consideration, _He is not a good enemy to have, and he is one of few who know the location of our planet. We do not wish the Emperor to find us._

“I understand,” Obi-Wan says.

_Our culture deplores holding someone against their will_ , Ooloe explains, _If you cannot convince someone of your point, you have not made your case well enough. Normally, knowing you are here as a prisoner, we would release you. But to cross Vader is…_ Ooloe pauses, searching for a suitable word.

“Suicidal, in many cases,” Obi-Wan provides. “I understand, I really do; I’ve seen what the Empire does to people who stand in its way. I don’t want that to happen to you.”

_Thank you_ , Ooloe types, her gratitude reflected in her eyes. _It pains us to do this. If we could defend you, we would. Even now the Council are arguing about it; some wish to release you and let the Empire come. It is a delicate balance the Tymin strike, between new ideas and ancient principles. Some of the Council feel that bending to the Empire, even to ensure our survival, betrays our ancient way of life._

“Vader has the entire Fifth Fleet under his personal command,” Obi-Wan says, “Even if he is acting alone, which I suspect he is, very few planets could stave him off.”

_Yes. And we are not well defended._ Ooloe pauses for a moment, thinking, then continues. _The Republic came here once, a long time ago. A cruiser, badly damaged, crashed in the swamplands, a continent away from here. Most of its crew were dead, but the few on the bridge had managed to land it with fairly minor damage. We originally learnt how to build ships and fly them from other crashes, a long time ago, and improved our knowledge by scavenging in Wild Space and the fringes of the Outer Rim, but no one had seen anything this big for millennia. We salvaged it, and the crew left alive helped us fix it. They did not wish to go back to the Republic, so we renamed their ship the_ Ithatica, _which means ‘arisen bird’ in our language, and it is the only major defence we have._

“What we they running from?” Obi-Wan asks, intrigued. “Who damaged them?”

_They were fighting a war. Their opponents were called…Separationists?_

“Separatists,” Obi-Wan says, nodding. “They were soldiers from the Clone Wars. That was over twenty years ago.”

_Yes. So, the_ Ithatica _is old, has been inexpertly repaired, and is not in constant operation; we don’t have the fuel for that. It hasn’t left dock in five years; some say it wouldn’t be able to break atmosphere anymore_.

“Do you have other ships?”

_We prefer small ships, like fighters. We have made quite a few of our own, and salvaged many._

“You make your own starships?” Obi-Wan asks. Ooloe nods. “But nothing as big as _Ithatica_?”

_No. Heavy industry is not common on Alum’Ta; we are trying to develop our planet without overly damaging its natural ecosystem. The process is slow, as you can imagine. But we will not let our planet become like the..._ Ooloe pauses, frowning. _I cannot remember the proper name. The Smog Moon?_

“The Smuggler’s Moon, I think, though Smog Moon would also be appropriate,” Obi-Wan says, “Nar Shaddaa?”

_Yes, that is it. A few of our scavengers and salvage teams have ventured that far_. _If there is a better representation of the Tymin idea of hell, I do not know of it._

“It’s not a pleasant place,” Obi-Wan agrees. They’re silent for a moment before he says, “Thank you for talking to me about this.”

_I felt it was only right that I explain_.

“I’m not going to try and escape. Just so you know.” Obi-Wan sighs heavily. “I see little point in it.”

_The jungle is inhospitable. You would most likely die_.

“Yes, that’s what I thought. Besides…” Obi-Wan stops, unsure how to communicate his vast sense of apathy to Ooloe, and not sure he even wants to. “What will happen, will happen,” he says eventually.

_We wish to be good hosts. If we might make you more comfortable, please tell us how_.

“I am very comfortable, but I will let you know if that changes,” Obi-Wan promises.

_Good. Now Siskir and I will go the Council, and tell them what you have said. They will be grateful. Most of them_.

Obi-Wan nods, and Ooloe packs up the datapad, stands, and bows before taking her leave.

I-33 potters in, asking if Obi-Wan would like tea, to which he agrees. He sits at the table for a long time, staring out into the jungle. The wall is concertinaed so it might be pushed back and opened; as the energy fence around the compound keeps predators out, Obi-Wan leaves the walls open all the time so that whatever breeze there is might find its way inside.

As I-33 returns with the tea, the first drops of rain begin to patter down outside. Obi-Wan sips from his cup and watches as a few drops becomes a torrent hurling itself at the ground, a seemingly endless deluge that Obi-Wan will soon come to know as a typical Alum’Ta rainstorm.

 

_35/2, 982 ARR  
Coruscant, Corusca sector, Core_

Padmé has been back on Coruscant for days when the message comes.

Heavily encrypted, as always, in a code they pray the Empire never breaks. Padmé waits until she’s back in her apartment to feed it in into the datapad she keeps for this exact purpose, and waits with eager anticipation as the message decodes.

When it’s done, the message reads; _Bad news – Kenobi captured. Meeting 8pm tonight at Star Lounge._

Padmé smiles to herself. Hopefully her news will make Obi-Wan’s capture a little easier to bear.

A high-end bar in the upper levels, the Star Lounge is one of their most frequent meeting spots. The owner, Asham Vost, is a Rebel sympathiser and his business functions as part of the Rebel movement, with a specialisation in getting Rebels or threatened individuals off Coruscant. Here they can talk without much fear of being overheard.

Padmé arrives promptly at seven fifty five, and Asham smiles widely when he sees her. “Nice to see you again, Senator,” he says as he mixes her drink. Outwardly their relationship is no closer than bar owner and frequent client, but they both know who the other secretly is.

Bail arrives a little late, slipping into the seat next to her as casually as possible. This meeting wouldn’t look odd from an outside point of view; they’re known to be friends and political allies. “You were away for longer than I expected,” he says, thanking Asham as he receives his drink, “Is everything alright?” Padmé nods. “Mon is devastated,” Bail says heavily, taking a long sip from his glass, “Blaming herself for losing the Jedi.”

Padmé leans forward. “He’s not lost.” When Bail turns incredulous eyes on her, she elaborates, “He was going to the Emperor, but I – well, we – diverted him, and he’s safe now.”

Bail sighs, his face relieved. “Well. That will make Mon feel better. But I take it he’s not…in a position to be released back to the Rebellion?”

Padmé knows he’s asking, _Does Anakin know?_ Bail likes to be polite about her husband, though; he’s one of the few associated with the Rebellion who do. “No, he’s not, but I’m going to work on that,” she promises. “I told Anakin I would come back, so I wouldn’t know where he was, but I planted a tracker on his ship. As soon as he returns, I’ll have the coordinates, and I’ll go out there.”

Bail hesitates. “You could…”

Padmé knows what he’s going to say. “He’ll be hidden somewhere remote, obscure. If Obi-Wan disappears so soon after Anakin hid him, he’d link it back to me.”

“I’ve already said I trust you, and I do,” Bail says after a moment, “So you handle it as you think is best. If you could convince him to deceive Vader and work with you, well…”

“I’m not going to stop there,” Padmé says firmly. “I’m going to convince him to help me turn Anakin back to the light.”

Bail sighs again, heavily. “We’ve had this argument, and you know what I think. If you can do that…well, I know you can do a lot.” He gives a low chuckle. “Maybe I just don’t have enough faith.”

“You have enough,” Padmé says, smiling, “You’re here, aren’t you?”

“Breha would never forgive me if I wasn’t,” Bail jokes, and Padmé shakes her head, grinning.

They talk about other things for a while – distribution of resources, organising resistance, extracting an operative who may have been found out – and then they part ways.

Padmé checks her calendar on the drive back from the bar. In two days or so, the _Hand of Alenthi_ should arrive back on Coruscant, tracker attached. She has two days to think up a suitable excuse for another long absence, so soon after her last; and an excuse good enough to fool Anakin, as well. She’d desperately like to clear her schedule and give herself some time to think, but most of these meetings are too urgent to postpone. “There must be _something_ I can pretend to be doing,” she says aloud, scrolling through the days on her calendar.

“My records show you have not taken holiday time in over a year, Senator,” C3P0 says from beside her.

“Obviously not, 3P0, I have too much to do.”

“What I meant, mistress-”

“Oh!” Padmé exclaims, suddenly seeing; then she laughs at the idea’s simplicity. “Just a holiday. Or rather, not just a holiday.” She looks back down at the datapad. “It will fool the other senators, probably, but not Anakin. I’ll have to wait until Palpatine sends him away on another mission.” She laughs to herself again. “Who ever thought you could be sneaky, 3P0?”

C3P0 sniffs, as if he is offended by this suggestion. “I was merely pointing out an option, mistress.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! I have to admit this chapter feels a bit filler-ish, but maybe it's just because I've been looking at it too long? Anyway, the plot moves forward ;)

_2/3, 982 ARR  
Coruscant, Corusca sector, Core_

Sidious doesn’t open their conversation with even a hint of anyone having found a Jedi; Anakin can’t tell if this is a good or a bad sign.

“You certainly were tramping around in the Outer Rim for a _while_ , Vader,” he says reproachfully, “One would have thought you’d have found some Rebels by now.”

Anakin swallows. “They’re well hidden, Master.”

“They must be.” Sidious regards him coolly, and Anakin resists the temptation to look away. “Still, I have a more important matter for you to look into now. I have found a rogue Jedi.”

Anakin’s heart stops. _How…? Has he…?_ “A…rogue Jedi, Master?” he manages.

“Yes.” Sidious presses a button on his desk, and a holographic projection of the galaxy springs to life. He manipulates it, and it zooms in to show a planet Anakin recognises. “We have found him here, in hiding on Kashyyyk.”

_Not Obi-Wan_. Anakin almost lets out a sigh of relief, but holds himself back. “Do you know who it is, Master?”

“An older Jedi; only one skilled in the Force would be able to hide on a Mid Rim world for so long, right under our noses.” Sidious looks at the hologram pensively. “I have my suspicions. All the information we’ve gathered will be sent to you; I expect you to dispose of this pest as quickly as possible.” Anakin bows, used to the quick and casual dismissal, and is about to turn and go when Sidious adds, “And take one of the Hands with you.”

Anakin just about manages to mask his distaste. “The Hands, Master?”

“They need more than training if they’re going to be useful.” Sidious waves a hand. “Go. Pick whichever one you feel is least likely to die.”

Thus dismissed, Anakin makes his way angrily from Sidious’ office. One of the _Hands_. Snotty little brats, most of them, and _not_ the kind of company he needs on a mission like this. For a while as he walks towards where he left his speeder, he debates taking the weakest one, just to see if they die.

But by the time he makes it outside, he’s made his decision.

About twenty years ago – three years after his successful coup – Sidious changed the DNA template for his army of clone soldiers. The new donor, a Mandalorian mercenary named Jango Fett, had asked for one unusual thing in return for his service; a clone of himself, to raise as his own child. Then Jango died, and Sidious had picked his young son as the first to join his experimental new project; the Emperor’s Hands.

Most of the candidates for Hand status were Force-sensitive, but Sidious liked to be thorough. A lack of Force sensitivity could be made up for in skill, in some cases – and Boba Fett seemed to be one of them.

Once he’s back in the huge apartment he shares with Padmé, he sends a message to the Hand training facility, telling them to prepare Fett for a mission and have him be at the military spaceport at nine hundred hours tomorrow morning, ready for action. He doesn’t give any mission details, but passes on that it’ll be a locate and execute operation in an arboreal environment. It will be interesting to see what Fett does with that small amount of information.

Then he reads the packet Imperial Intelligence has sent him, which is scarce. An older man, suspected of a list of actions which suggest Force powers, apparently living in a wilder part of the Kashyyyk forests, aided by a group of local Wookies. It’s about as illuminating as intel ever is.

Setting it aside, Anakin sends a message to the flight crews at the spaceport, telling them to have a transport ready for his use, and then settles in to wait for Padmé to get back from the Senate.

If he only has one night with her before he has to leave again, he’s going to make the most of it.

 

_2/3, 982 ARR  
Coruscant, Corusca sector, Core_

Padmé receives a message from the _Hand of Alenthi’s_ captain the moment it touches down in the spaceport. She hurries there as quickly as possible, and tours the ship under the guise of inspecting it – just to make sure it is in fit condition to send back to the Queen, she tells the crew.

Aside from the captain, the other three crew members are clones from Anakin’s personal battalion. She finds it hard to read them, but as far as she can tell they are taken in by her ruse, and don’t interfere as the captain shows her around the vessel. She doesn’t pay attention to whatever he’s saying; she hopes it doesn’t show.

Once the tour is done, she returns to her speeder and waits. A minute later, Sabé slips into the passenger seat. “Got it,” she says triumphantly, holding the small black box up in her palm for Padmé to see, “Undamaged, undetected as far as I can tell.”

“Good.” Padmé starts the speeder’s engine and they lift off. “How quickly can you have the coordinates?”

“I’ll need an hour or so once we get back to the apartment.”

“Anakin has gone to see Palpatine; I hope he’ll get a new assignment. If so, we might be leaving very soon.”

“Very good, milady,” Sabé says, and they lapse into silence.

C3P0 is waiting to greet them when they emerge out of the elevator from the parking garage. “Welcome back, Mistress Padmé. Master Anakin has returned and is waiting for you in the lounge.”

Padmé exchanges a look with Sabé, and her handmaiden nods before disappearing down a side passage. Padmé continues on, taking off her outer coat as she enters the lounge.

Anakin, sitting on one of the plush couches, looks mulish. “What happened?” Padmé asks without preamble.

He turns and blinks at her for a second, then says, “He didn’t mention Obi-Wan. Apparently he suspects nothing. But he’s sending me to find some rogue Jedi – or someone they think is a rogue Jedi – on Kashyyyk. I have to leave tomorrow morning.”

_The plan is coming together_ , Padmé thinks, pleased, but is careful not to let it show on her face. “That’s disappointing. Still, it would seem our ruse is working, for now. We’ll have to be careful still, though. Sidious could be sending you off world to distract you, separate us, give him time to manoeuvre and investigate.”

“He could be planning to arrest you, to torture you.” Anakin stands. “Perhaps you’d better leave Coruscant.”

Padmé blinks; is it really going to be this simple? “Do you think so? I’ve only just returned…”

“Better to confuse the Senate than leave you here with Sidious,” Anakin argues.

“Anakin, I’ve been on Coruscant alone hundreds of times.”

“Not while we were actively involved in a conspiracy against him that he _knew_ about.”

Padmé sighs, makes a show of frowning into the distance. This is what she wants, but she can’t give in without a fight; Anakin will find that too suspicious. “If he moved on me, it would only anger you and make you more dangerous-”

“Or ensure my compliance.” Anakin steps close and takes her hand. “You know what he’s like, Padmé. If he can get to you through me, he will.”

She looks up at him; seeing such honest, vulnerable emotion in his eyes is touching, and it sends shivers of guilt and self-revulsion across her skin. She is deceiving him, has been deceiving him from the moment they began this relationship; at times it’s hard to bite back the admission that longs to spring from her tongue.

She holds it in. “I worry about our political standing. If we’re both away from Coruscant for too long…”

“If we’re both dead, our political standing won’t matter, will it?” Anakin bluntly points out.

Padmé feels a smile tug at the corner of her lips, without her really meaning for it to be there. “That is a simple but…clear way of looking at it.”

“Just take some time off.” He squeezes her hand. “For me.”

She plays up the reluctance in her tone as she accepts. “Alright. I suppose I can spend a few days at home on Naboo. I haven’t taken a holiday for a while.”

Anakin smiles, and Padmé’s heart catches a little; it transforms his entire face. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“When are you leaving?” she asks, changing the subject.

“Early tomorrow morning.” His smile turns sly. “So, we have time…”

_Yes, we have time._ “Tell Sabé to leave those documents on my desk in the office, 3P0,” she commands, and then takes Anakin’s outstretched hand.

 

_3/3, 982 ARR  
Coruscant, Corusca sector, Core_

His flight crew have prepared a small gunboat, specced for stealth. Anakin looks it over admiringly as the flight deck officer goes over a few final points.

“And that’s really all you need to know, Lord Vader,” the officer finishes, “Anything unusual is covered in her logbook.”

Anakin mutters something that approximates thanks; he’s restless, eager to be gone. If Fett is late, he’s going to get left behind.

It’s at that moment that a crackle comes over his personal comm. “There’s an Emperor’s Hand here for you, Lord Vader?”

“Send him onboard,” Anakin commands, and strides towards the entry ramp.

Boba Fett looks a lot like his father, and not just because he’s a clone of the man. There’s something in the way he walks, the way he holds himself, the way he wears the traditional Mandalorian armour, that calls Jango to mind.

His expression, though, is sullen, while Anakin remembers Jango having a near-constant mien of studied professional detachment.

He doesn’t acknowledge Anakin with anything more than an intensification of his glare. “Orders?” he asks curtly.

Anakin can feel the flight deck officer’s discomfort at this obvious lack of respect, but he takes it in stride. He knows enough about Mandalorian heritage to understand that getting a Mando to respect a Force-user is as likely as getting blood from stone. “Find a bunk,” he says, “And prepare for a long flight.”

Boba waits, clearly expecting more to be forthcoming; as the silence stretches, he raises an eyebrow.

“I’ll give you a full briefing later,” Anakin says eventually.

“Fine.” Boba shrugs, shoulders his bag, and turns on his heel to walk to the back of the ship.

_That’s going to be fun for four days in a tight space. And on a mission._ Maybe taking a less skilled but more personable Hand would have been prudent – though considering the calibre of Palpatine’s recruits, ‘personable’ would be a generous descriptor for any of them.

The flight deck officer doesn’t make any comment on Boba’s attitude, though Anakin can tell he’d like to. “If that’s all you need, Lord Vader, I can contact air/space traffic control to begin your take off sequence?”

Anakin nods, “Do that.”

The officer leaves, and Anakin retracts the gunboat’s ramp before going up to the cockpit. He can feel Boba’s Force signature in one of the two cabins, tumultuous and stormy. He wonders absently what’s under the layers of anger and sullen cynicism. Grief, after this long – is that the heart of it?

_Understanding your enemy’s weakness is the key to his defeat_ , Sidious’ voice whispers into his ear, and Anakin shudders. His master was right, of course, but the memories of those lessons are not easy to return to.

A light on the cockpit readout begins to blink; Coruscant air/space control has cleared his flight path for take-off. Anakin shoves the mystery of Boba Fett to the back of his mind as he fires up the gunboat’s engines and puts her into a low hover.

Despite himself, he grins. Flying is the one thing he never has to worry about; the one thing he can just _do_ , and do right. It’s a wonderful feeling after the stress of the last week or so, to focus intently on the flight of the ship, to shut out all other distractions. He’ll lose it to hyperspace and the autopilot soon, but as the ship ascends into the Coruscanti skylines Anakin savours the moment.

Somehow, when he gets into a cockpit, everything seems right in the world.

_3/3, 982 ARR  
Alum’Ta, Wild Space_

Obi-Wan spends the next few days trying to learn the Tymin language.

I-33 doesn’t have a ‘teach’ function, but he can show Obi-Wan any phrase he asks for, and Obi-Wan mimics his movements for hours, trying to get them right. Watching the Tymin as they converse, either with him or with each other, is also helpful. Skimming the surfaces of their minds through the Force, it becomes easy to link hand gestures to feelings or trains of thought, though their exact meaning is harder to pick up.

Etu works with her hands all day, but during the evening meal she likes to talk, and Obi-Wan watches her hands intently as she does, listening to I-33’s translations. Etu laughs when he tries to copy her, often silently reaching over to shape his hands in a different way – correcting his pronunciation, Obi-Wan thinks to himself with a smile.

Sometimes Ooloe joins the evening meal; she seems amused by Obi-Wan’s attempts at language, but supportive of his desire to learn. Siskir is also occasionally there, but he doesn’t speak much. Etu tells Obi-Wan that he is shy around strangers, especially non-Tymin. Haaum is always absent; she spends most of her time up on the platform above the complex, and even takes her meals there. _She’s mourning a lost love_ , Etu explains, and Obi-Wan doesn’t pry any further.

His attempts to learn language take Obi-Wan’s mind off things; thoughts of what is going to happen to him when Vader or his wife return retreat to the back of his mind as he concentrates on mastering the different hand signals for rain or leaves.

_It is so strange, how you can make sounds with your throat_ , Etu says one mealtime. They are alone at the table; Haaum is on her platform as usual, Siskir away on an assignment, and Ooloe shut up in her study. _It is a rare thing on Alum’Ta. Only few animals can make sounds here_.

“I had noticed the jungle was quieter than many I’ve visited,” Obi-Wan says.

_The fauna here communicate through movements or smells, mostly_ , Etu says. _We haven’t been able to work out why this environment made us develop this particular trait._

“Are you interested in biology?” Obi-Wan asks, taking another mouthful of the seasoned meat and vegetable dish they’re eating.

_Yes. The biology here is very interesting, the relationship between the plants and animals. And someday I would like to go further afield – perhaps see some of the other jungles you mentioned_. She smiles. _Not many Tymin are able to leave Alum’Ta, but scavenging parties go every so often_.

“You don’t want people to learn of your existence?” Obi-Wan asks.

_No. We are a careful and secretive people_. _There are many resources here that less…careful individuals could exploit._

“The Empire is especially good at such things,” Obi-Wan says bitterly.

_Yes. I don’t know much about them, in truth, but Ooloe keeps up with galactic politics, and she hates them_.

Obi-Wan glances over at the main building; the window of Ooloe’s study is just visible. “She’s right to,” he says quietly. “I can’t think of anyone more worth hating.”

Etu looks at him sadly, but she doesn’t comment. They move on to discussing her subject of special interest, the local birdlife, and Obi-Wan tries to lose himself in this acquisition of new knowledge, to distract himself from bitter thoughts.

That evening, late at night when the lights around the complex have mostly been extinguished and the few animals that are capable of making audible sound are calling to each other in the bush outside, Obi-Wan stands at his window, looking out into the dark, fragrant night. This place is an entire world away from anything he imagined as he lay in that prison cell. How strange the world is, how strange the will of the Force, to put him here.

Outside in the compound, he sees a shape moving around on the paths. One of the Tymin, surely; at this distance and with this darkness, he can’t make out who with only his eyes. Breathing in gently, he stretches out with his Force senses toward the distant figure, and feels Ooloe’s distinct Force signature. She moves silently and gracefully through the dark foliage, passing from Obi-Wan’s physical sight, but he feels her signature stop near the edge of the energy fence.

On a whim, he pulls on an outer robe and exits the house, picking his way carefully through the strange dim landscape of night time plants to get to her.

There is no sense of surprise when he reaches her; she must have been able to hear him stumbling about for at least a minute. When he reaches her, she makes two signs, one he recognises as ‘sleep’ and the other ‘no’. “I hadn’t even got into bed,” he says, copying her stance, arms folded in front of his chest, staring out into the black jungle. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really know why I came out here.”

Ooloe makes a sign that isn’t familiar to Obi-Wan, but she thinks something that feels like impatience, or maybe restlessness.

Obi-Wan considers; it isn’t the most exciting place in the world, but he hasn’t had any serious bouts of cabin fever. “I’m fine. Just…continually wondering what the next day will bring.”

She nods, and they stand in silence for a long time, looking out at the vague shapes of trees and plants that are visible beyond the distortion of the faintly humming energy fence. Obi-Wan can feel the life out there, the jungle teeming with animals large and small, bright flares against the background energy of the plant life. It’s beautiful.

“Is it always like this?” he asks.

Ooloe looks at him questioningly.

For a few minutes, Obi-Wan doesn’t know how to describe the feeling. “Peaceful,” is what he eventually settles for, but it’s not quite right. It doesn’t encompass the _vastness_ of this feeling, of Alum’Ta’s night jungle.

Ooloe simply shrugs, and makes the sign for yes.

 

_3/3, 982 ARR  
Coruscant, Corusca sector, Core_

Sabé comes to her the next morning, after Anakin has left for the spaceport. “I was able to narrow down the coordinates to a pretty specific location,” she says, calling it up on a holomap. At the bottom of the map, near the end of the white line that marks the Corellian Run, the mapping software has picked out a red dot, labelled with coordinates. “Not very far into Wild Space,” Sabé comments, “but uncharted, so far as I can tell.”

Padmé spends a moment looking at the red dot, wondering what she’ll find there. What kind of secret hideaway has her husband found – and what about it makes him think it’s a safe place to leave their third? She trusts Anakin’s judgement, but she can’t deny that she’s curious. “Thank you,” she says, then pauses before continuing, “I know it would be asking a lot-”

“I wouldn’t let you charge off into Wild Space without me, my lady,” Sabé says, grinning.

Padmé smiles back. “Well, it won’t be charging so much as…flying casually. We don’t want to attract undue attention.”

“Of course not.” Sabé gives her a bow that is somewhere between mocking and serious. “Shall I instruct the airfield to have your cruiser ready?”

“Give it an hour or two yet. I don’t want to set out so soon after Anakin, and I still have to submit my holiday application to the Senate.” There is no doubt it will get approved – any leave of absence she requests is approved – but procedure must be followed.

Sabé nods and retreats from the room, leaving Padmé alone with C3P0. “I’ll need that form, 3P0,” Padmé says, and sits down at her desk.

She squares away a few hours’ worth of work, making sure at least some of the tasks that only she can do are completed, and that her aides and assistants won’t have too hard a time coping with her second long leave of absence in a very short space of time. It would make her feel guilty, but it is, in the end, for their benefit. Maybe in the very _long_ term, but it will work out for the greater good eventually.

A muted ping from her private communicator breaks her focus halfway into the afternoon. The message announces that the Senate administration has approved her request – like they could do otherwise – and wishes her a relaxing holiday. Padmé files the message away and comms Sabé, instructing her to have everything prepared. Then she rises from her desk and goes to find C3P0.

“I want you to come with me,” she tells him, which sends the droid into a predictable fit of anxiety.

“My lady, I am made for diplomatic missions, but, ah, the nature of _your_ excursions-”

“I have no idea who or what I’ll find on this planet, 3P0. I need an expert translator.”

The way C3P0 sighs is unnervingly human-like. “As you wish, my lady,” he says, resigned.

She packs, pulling practical clothes from one of the smaller sections of her wardrobe; only enough to fit into one holdall that she can carry on her shoulder. Then she, followed by a very reluctant C3P0, leaves the apartment.

Sabé is waiting on the landing pad, by the ramp of the ship; the engines are already warming up, the noise almost deafening. Sabé motions silently for Padmé to proceed up the ramp ahead of her, and when they reach the top she hits the button to raise it. When the aperture closes, sealing them off suddenly from the maelstrom of noise and wind outside, she says, “Everything is prepared, milady. The flight plan has already been confirmed with control – shall we set off?”

Padmé nods. “Who is piloting?”

“It’s just Eirtaé and I on board, my lady.”

“Good.” Padmé turns and leads the way to the back of the ship, to the conference room. The engines kick into high gear as she enters, and she feels the lurch as the ship slides smoothly into motion, up into the clouds. “We’d best sit down.”

They strap themselves into the plush chairs; Padmé can feel it as the ship levels off to join the Coruscanti skylines. Soon there will be the rattles and jolts as they exit atmosphere – still noticeable, even in a ship this fine – and then the almost imperceptible, indescribable pull in the gut as they jump to lightspeed. It is a familiar, comforting routine.

Sabé touches her ear for a moment, listens to whatever Eirtaé is telling her, then relays, “The hyperspace trip will take around five days, my lady.”

Padmé nods; that’s about as long as she expected.

Sabé shifts, lacing her fingers together in an oddly awkward motion, as if she’s about to ask a question she’s not sure will be welcome. Padmé waits; usually if Sabé has something to say, she will state it plainly.

A minute ticks past, and her handmaiden seems to lose her nerve. “This planet…we know nothing about it? The terrain, the atmosphere?”

This is a practical question; whatever awkward thing Sabé was thinking of touching on, she decided against it. Padmé lets it go. “Nothing. I know only the coordinates. I assume it’s habitable, but that is not necessarily so.”

“I see.” Sabé sighs. “An adventure, then.”

_The real adventure will be talking to Obi-Wan_. Padmé tries not to be nervous; she has five days of freedom to plan exactly how she will talk to him, convince him, bring him around to her side. His armour will be hard to crack, but words have never failed her before.

The ship begins to shudder, lightly but noticeably under their feet; they’re leaving Coruscant’s atmosphere.

Padmé sighs, picks up her datapad, and begins to make notes for the hardest and most important argument of her life.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait everyone!! Note to self: subplots should be added with caution.

_8/3 982 ARR  
_ _The_ Queen's Hope _, in orbit above Alum'Ta, Wild Space_

When the ship exits hyperspace Padmé is sitting at her desk, staring at the datapad which contains all her work of the past five days.

It's not a substantial document, but it has been edited and refined several times over, arguments solidified and streamlined to provide maximum impact. Padmé is confident, as she usually is before an argument. This will be perhaps one of the toughest performances of her career, but the most important.

 _A Jedi on the side of the Rebels_. It's a compelling, tantalising thought. If she can make it happen, it might just be the greatest victory over the Empire that she's achieved.

But first she has to convince Obi-Wan.

"My lady?" Sabé pokes her head through the door. "We've arrived. Shall we set a course for the planet?"

Padmé nods her head. The information from the tracker has given them the coordinates of the _Hand of Alenthi's_ landing; they only need to follow, and hopefully Obi-Wan will be within easy reach. "Set us down as soon as possible, Sabé. Have we been contacted by any sort of planetary control?"

Sabé shakes her head. "We scanned the channels; seems this planet doesn't have one."

All the better for them, then. Padmé dismisses her handmaiden with a nod, then puts her datapad down decisively and goes to straighten her clothes. She's revised the words over and over; looking at it again will only make her nervous.

The ship enters atmosphere and lands unchallenged and unmolested; this must be a very backwards world, Padmé thinks. Maybe there's no intelligent life at all. When she enters the cockpit, ready to gather the party and set out, she asks Eirtaé, "Did you perform a scan for life forms?"

"Yes, milady." Eirtaé motions to a screen, where the orb that represents the planet is practically on fire with green light denoting detected lifeforms. "I also picked up evidence of radio transmissions, though I couldn't pinpoint the frequencies and listen in. There's sentient life on this planet advanced enough to use radio technology, at least. Could be natives, could be settlers; there’s no way to tell."

"Do they know we're here?" Padmé asks.

"Hard to say. They haven't tried to contact us."

Padmé stands in silence for a few moments, eyeing the glowing green planet. A wary native species or trigger-happy settlers could mean a lot of trouble, especially if Anakin set them to guarding Obi-Wan.

But she didn't come this far for nothing. "We go ahead as planned," she says, straightening. "But make sure your blasters are set to stun."

The heat and sounds of the jungle hit them as soon as they step from the ship. The air of Alum'Ta is hot and close, so humid that it feels to Padmé as if she's actually inhaling water from the air around her.

"Scans show something that might be a complex of buildings in that direction," Sabé says, pointing. Padmé nods, and they head that way, Sabé leading and cutting through the thick vegetation in their way with her vibrosword.

"How far is it?" Padmé asks.

"Not too far, milady. In fact-"

Sabé doesn't get to finish, because at that moment a blaster bolt screams out of the trees and hits the ground right next to her left foot.

"Cover!" Padmé yells, but it's too late; humanoid figures have materialised out of the jungle on all sides, blasters trained on them. To move would be suicide.

After a few tense seconds, Padmé grits her teeth and motions to the others to lower their weapons.

It's instantly obvious why their assailants were so easily able to sneak up on them. They're patterned all over in dappled greens and browns, perfect camouflage for the forest environment, and it takes Padmé a moment to realize that their skin is that colour naturally, not merely painted. The wide billows of their tattered cloaks confuse and obscure their movements as they come closer, blaster rifles still trained on the party.

"3P0, get ready to translate," Padmé tells him as the alien in front steps forward.

She takes one hand off her rifle and makes a series of hand gestures; from the way he moves his head, Padmé can tell 3P0 is following them intently. When she finishes he says, "They want to know what you're doing here, mistress."

"Tell them we're looking for someone who might be in their care. That Lord Vader sent us."

3P0 relays this in a series of gestures, his ungainly hands and thick fingers clunky, and slightly confusing if the alien's frown is anything to go by. After a minute, though, she signs something back. "She says they were not informed of any visitors, mistress."

"Tell them it was a last minute decision. I am Lord Vader's wife, and I know what he knows. This prisoner is no secret to be kept from me."

This takes longer for 3P0 to translate, his stiff joints encountering trouble with the complex signs he needs to make. Eventually, though, the alien appears to understand, and another frown furrows her brow. She meets Padmé's eyes, her gaze challenging; Padmé stares right back, determined. After several long, agonising moments, the alien nods stiffly. She turns and walks away, making a gesture over her shoulder which clearly means 'follow me'.

With trepidation, Padmé follows, Sabé and Eirtaé close behind. The forest closes in around them suddenly, the relatively clear area in which they landed the ship disappearing as they walk into the cover of the thick canopy. The alien continues to lead, and although they are hard to see, Padmé knows the others are following, flanking them on all sides. Sabé and Eirtaé follow her unquestioningly, hands twitchy by their holsters.

Soon the complex of buildings Sabé picked up on her scanner appears from the trees, low dark buildings almost overgrown with plant life. The alien woman leads them to one of the houses and steps up onto the veranda, tapping politely three times on the front door.

There’s a long pause. Padmé fans at herself, already incredibly uncomfortable in the heat, and tries to keep her composure. She’ll need it very soon.

The door is opened by a protocol droid; a quick flurry of hand signals explains the situation, and the droid steps back and welcomes them inside with a sincere-sounding, “Welcome to our home, Mistress!”

Padmé nods at it, and steps through into the darkened entrance corridor of the house. It’s slightly cooler in here; she can see vents discreetly hidden in the paneled ceilings as they walk through the building.

The room the droid leads her to is large and sparsely furnished, the wall on one side folded back to allow access to the wide veranda. A low table surrounded by cushions is the focal point of the room, and at it sits the man she’s come to see. Her heart beats a little faster in her chest as he looks up at her, eyes shadowed and brow drawn together in a frown.

All he says is, “Lady Vader.” His tone is cold; he doesn’t get up or make any other sign of respect. But then, Padmé had not expected him to. He doesn’t, she notes, look surprised to see her.

“Leave us,” she commands, and the handmaidens and 3P0 turn to leave without a word. The alien woman hesitates, but at nod from Obi-Wan she goes as well, drawing the other droid along with her.

Alone, they linger in silence for a minute or two, simply looking at each other.

“May I sit?” Padmé eventually asks.

Obi-Wan makes a dismissive gesture toward the opposite side of the table. “Why not? We may as well be civilized.”

Hostile, bitter. Things she expected, things she has planned for. Padmé lowers herself gracefully onto one of the cushions and sets her datapad on the table in front of her, the screen dark. She remembers most of what she wants to say, but it’s prudent to have the document in front of her just in case.

“I suppose Vader sent you here,” Obi-Wan says, looking out of the window rather than at her.

“No. I came without his knowledge.”

He looks back and her and raises an eyebrow. “I find that hard to believe.”

“A lot of what I say today you may find hard to believe. I don’t actually expect you to believe it all at first, actually. I would ask that you listen and consider everything carefully, however.”

Obi-Wan shrugs. “I’m sure it can’t be much less interesting than sitting here in silence.”

Padmé ignores that. “What I say today can’t leave this room. It’s very important that no one else hears about this, _especially_ Vader.” Obi-Wan opens his mouth, but Padmé raises a hand to stop him. “I don’t need your word. I know once you hear what I have to say, you’ll understand the importance of keeping this secret.”

Obi-Wan sits back and folds his arms. “Alright. Shock me.”

“Obi-Wan, I have been working as a mole for the Rebellion within the Senate for about two years now.”

Obi-Wan’s face barely moves. His mouth twists slightly as he says, “That? That’s what you’re going with?”

“It’s not a lie. I know I don’t have any way to prove it to you; obviously I employ the utmost secrecy in all my interactions with any other Rebellion members. But I _am_ working for them, and I am dedicated entirely to deposing the Emperor and restoring the Republic.”

“You know I lived with them. Trusted them.” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “And now you just happen to be working with them, a secret spy that no one could ever talk about, who just _happens_ to be Vader’s wife _and_ my ‘soulmate’? I had thought a senator would be able to construct a more convincing story.”

“A senator would, if she were constructing a story.” Padmé looks at him intently. “Isn’t it said that the most unlikely story is usually the truth?”

“Not in this case, I think.” Obi-Wan looks away, out at the rain. Before Padmé can speak again he looks back, his eyes hard. “I’m not some soft, corrupt senator you can charm or hoodwink, Lady Vader. I am a Jedi.”

“Then you should be able to tell that this is the truth.” When Obi-Wan shakes his head, she snaps, “Do you know why most rejoice when they find their soulmate, Obi-Wan? They’ve found their partner, their equal, their companion through thick and thin. Do you know what I thought?”

“Should I care?” Obi-Wan is trying to sound caustic, but underneath he just sounds tired.

“I can use him. That’s what I thought. I can use him for the Rebellion, use what he knows, use his trust.” Padmé leans forward. “But then I realized, I can do so much more than that. I can _help_ him; I can turn him back to the light, and then he can help us. Do you realize how much that would help the Rebellion, Obi-Wan, if Anakin were to join us?”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “Oh, for a certainty. _If_ any of this were true, and _if_ turning from the dark side were possible - but it’s not, and there’s nothing to convince me all of this isn’t a trick of some kind.” He turns away and looks out the window again, this time clearly shutting her out. “If you’re going to kill me, I’d prefer you simply get on with it. Otherwise, hand me to Lord Sidious; I’m sure he’ll be more than happy to help.” Then, quieter, “I will not join you. Either of you. Ever.”

The silence is long after that. Padmé knows she has failed, that she should leave and regroup, but she can’t seem to make herself move. This hasn’t gone the way she planned; she moved off script halfway through the conversation, the datapad forgotten on the table. It seems so childish now, to have planned out their conversation, as if Obi-Wan would simply have given her all the answers she expected.

“You’re making a mistake,” she tries, somewhat hopelessly. “We need to work together.”

“Maybe I am.” Obi-Wan’s mouth twists. “But I doubt it.”

Well. That’s that. Padmé sighs and rises to leave, putting a small comm device on the table. “If you change your mind, or you need anything, you can use this to contact me.” Obi-Wan ignores her, and she leaves the room, sighing heavily to herself.

3P0, Sabé and Eirtaé are waiting outside, being watched warily by the alien woman and one of her compatriots. “We’re done here,” Padmé tells them, “Tell them we’re leaving, 3P0.” He does, and the alien woman nods, looking slightly relieved. Padmé sweeps out of the house without bothering with a goodbye, and despite herself she thinks longing of the cool, air conditioned ship they’ll be returning to.

She’s failed to convince him today, but she’s laid the groundwork. It was always a long shot he’d believe her, anyway, despite what she tried to convince herself of. She’ll just have to be patient, work on him a little. Maybe see if one of the Rebellion members he knew and trusted could come here with her, to _truly_ convince him…

Her mind is already turning as she walks back up the ramp into the cool dim interior of the ship, spinning with possibilities.

/

 _8/3, 982 ARR  
_ _Kashyyk, Mytaranor sector, Mid Rim_

After four days in hyperspace, Anakin has never been more glad to get off a ship.

It’s not that Boba does much, exactly. He’s hardly seen the kid. But the anger and bitterness in his force presence seeps into Anakin’s meditations, lingers on the back of his consciousness, like an annoying buzzing that’s more distracting than fueling to the dark side.

Hopefully, now that they’re here and about to actually _do_ something, the kid will get distracted from his moping.

An Imperial officer meets them at the landing platform. “Welcome to Kashyyyk, Lord Vader,” the man says, his voice and face not betraying a hint of the nerves Anakin can sense through the Force. “Forgive me, we were only just informed of your arrival, so there is nothing in place-”

“This is not a state visit,” Anakin interrupts. “I’m here on the Emperor’s business. I will find my own way, unless I require your assistance. I will be sure to let you know if I need it.”

The officer pauses, then nods hurriedly. “Of course, Lord Vader. If you would like us to leave you to your own devices, so to speak....”

“That would be best. Simply point me in the direction of the nearest speeder.”

A quick call from the officer brings a speeder to them, and after they’ve climbed in and are speeding away into the trees, Boba asks, “We’re going to check out the location of the sightings?”

“We’re meeting our contact. _Discreetly_ ,” he adds, putting obvious emphasis on the word.

Boba doesn’t scoff, but there’s a spike of annoyance in his force signature and he glares silently out of the window.

Well. If he didn’t act like a sulky child, Anakin wouldn’t treat him like one.

It’s a long drive to the area where the supposed rogue Jedi lives, and with Boba’s gloomy force presence blocked out, Anakin manages to enjoy the drive. The trees of Kashyyyk bend and twist and grow around each other in unique and unpredictable ways, providing quite the assault course for the speeder.

As they approach the Wookiee village near which their quarry is supposed to be hiding, Anakin slows up and ascends into the high canopy. He parks on one of the thick branches, making sure it’s wide enough that there’s no danger the speeder will fall, then turns to Boba. “So. We need to find this guy, quietly, if possible, and with minimal local help. The Wookiee we’re seeing today is the only member of the village who’s willing to work with the Empire. Everyone else is to be treated as a possible dissident.”

Boba just nods silently. Anakin has already briefed him on this; he just needs to make sure the kid understands. Any screw ups here would be costly for both of them.

“Stay here.” Anakin hops out of the speeder and down into the branches, Force-leaping easily from perch to perch. He scans the area a few times with infrared binoculars, which turns up a variety of local wildlife, but nothing that looks humanoid in shape. After a few minutes he returns to the speeder. “Nothing. We’re clear of Wookiees and rogue Jedi.”

Boba leans forward in his seat. Something has suddenly changed in him; all the sulkiness and bad attitude is gone, replaced with an almost preternaturally intense focus. “How closely packed are the trees? If I can make the jumps without my pack, we’ll be able to move in silently.”

“Close; you can practically run from branch to branch.” Anakin thinks for a moment, mulling their options. The Wookiee village begins about ten trees over; the rogue Jedi is probably hiding somewhere beyond. Intel was vague about exactly where, but the report was adamant that the Jedi must have a base of some kind in the forest to the west - which would give them quite a wide area to search. Hopefully the information they’ll get from their contact will help narrow that down.

They want to move quietly; their contact would be considered a traitor by his people, if their rendezvous were discovered. Anakin nods to himself as he decides; they’ll go on foot.

“Alright,” he says, “Bail out. Stick close to me; if you fall, I’ll catch you.”

Boba broadcasts a quick flash of contempt, but he doesn’t say anything, just follows Anakin’s instruction. They leave the speeder behind and make their way into the trees, heading parallel to the Wookiee village. Their contact has arranged to meet them at a lookout post a little ways out of the village, where he will be on watch, alone.

Anakin calls a halt and does another scan of the trees when they come in sight of the lookout post. They seem to be in the clear; one Wookiee shape stands alone on the lookout platform, with nothing else humanoid in sight. Anakin waves Boba forward, and they move in.

Anakin lands on the branch below the platform and then flips up onto it, landing in a crouch a little way in front of the Wookiee. He starts, bringing up his spear, before realizing who Anakin is. _ <You’re the Empire’s agent?> _ he asks.

“Yes.” Anakin steps forward. Behind him, Boba appears over the top of the ladder. “You can call me Vader. I was told you have information about the Jedi?”

 _ <The village is hiding him> _ the Wookiee said. _ <They hate the Empire. Risking all of our lives to help a dangerous fugitive is acceptable, in their eyes, if it means frustrating the Empire’s designs> _

“I see. So the village helps him remain hidden, brings him supplies, feeds him information.” The Wookiee nods. “And where might we find this Jedi?”

The Wookiee turns and points to the west. _ <It is much deeper within the forest, an ancient temple site. It honours gods we no longer worship, so modern records do not show it> _

“It’s on the forest floor? Or in the canopy?” Anakin asks.

_ <It is in the canopy, high, within the leaves. It is a good vantage point for the forest around it; every approach is visible, so they say> _

“But he’s only one man,” Anakin says. “He can’t watch all of them.”

The Wookiee makes a coughing sound that could be laughter. _ <He is only one man> _

“You said ‘so they say’,” Boba says, “You haven’t seen the Jedi’s hideout yourself?”

 _ <No. I did not know it existed before the Jedi arrived, and only the most trusted are permitted to visit him there. I learned the location from ancient maps, but there was no illustration of the structure itself> _ He held out a data chip. _ <Speaking of his location; this is all the information I have managed to gather. I hope it will be enough> _

“We’ll make sure it is,” Anakin says, taking the chip carefully. “The Empire thanks you for your service. Once we catch the Jedi, you’ll be rewarded.”

The Wookiee nods once. _ <You should probably make haste; another patrol will be here soon> _

Anakin nods his thanks, then leaps off the platform and onto a lower branch. While Boba climbs down the ladder to join him, he scans the area again with the binoculars, but nothing seems out of the ordinary.

They’re silent until they’re back in the speeder. “So, we recon the place?” Boba asks.

“I’d like to, but it might not be possible. He is a Jedi.”

“He’d...sense us?” Boba sounds somewhat sceptical.

“Perhaps. We don’t know how well trained he is. It might be that even entering the area around him would be enough to spook him.”

Boba frowns. “So, what, he knows we’re here? Now?”

“I doubt it.” _At least I seriously hope not_. “He might sense us coming and run. He might sense us coming and fight.”

“You can’t, I don’t know, block his powers or something?”

“I can. Maybe. It depends how powerful or sensitive he is.” They sit in silence for a few minutes, both thinking.

Sidious said the Jedi must be skilled to have hidden from them so long - skilled enough to detect Anakin even if he hid his presence? There’s no way to tell. All Anakin knows is it would be beyond foolish to blunder in unprepared, but he can’t recon with Boba following him; the rogue Jedi would almost certainly pick him up.

“Alright, here’s the plan. You take the speeder and go back to the Imperial outpost; gather up some reinforcements and take them to the old Imperial staging ground nearby. It should be marked on your HUD map. Meanwhile, I’ll go and check out our Jedi’s hideout.”

“And if you get caught?” Boba asks.

Anakin smiles grimly. “That’s what the reinforcements are for.”

  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I return from the wasteland....
> 
> There will come a day when this fic finishes, my friends. I only hope it will not be too far in the future.
> 
> For now, enjoy.

_8/3, 982 ARR  
Kashyyyk, Mytaranor Sector, Mid Rim_

The treetop temple would have been beautiful, once. A winding structure formed entirely of wroshyr wood, it looks as if it has naturally grown from the trees that hold it cradled between their boughs. Time has taken its toll, though; the wood is faded and rotten in places, parts of the roof have fallen in, and the whole building has an air of neglect and withered age about it.

Anakin crouches in the branches a few trees over, watching. He’s been here for two hours, muscles cramping and protesting, but he’s held still and silent as a shadow. So far, the temple has shown no hint of being anything other than what it’s supposed to be; an abandoned, rotting ruin.

Anakin waits. The Jedi will show themself, or they won’t; if nothing has moved within six hours, he’ll go in for a closer look. He’d like to reach out and sweep the area for Force signatures, but the shield he’s maintaining to obscure his own won’t hide an action like that.

The waiting is mind-numbing, and he can’t slip into meditation. He needs to be alert. He shifts position again on the branch and keeps his eyes trained on the temple.

It’s another hour before anything happens. Without warning, a large grey-furred Wookiee swings into view through the trees, carrying a sack on his shoulder. He climbs the branch that leads to the main door of the temple and executes a precise series of knocks - a code, without doubt - on the wood beside the gaping doorway.

Anakin waits in tense silence as the Wookiee stands still, looking through the darkened entrance.

Half a minute passes before a man steps out. A tall man, human, with dark skin and black hair in braids. Anakin had half expected the rogue Jedi to be old, but this man is fairly young, probably in his thirties. About Obi-Wan’s age, actually; Anakin wonders suddenly if they knew each other.

The man talks to the Wookiee for a few minutes. The sack passes between them and the man looks in, then nods, clearly satisfied with whatever he sees. Then the Wookiee turns to go, and the man stands for a long moment looking around, like he’s scanning the area for threats. Anakin draws his shield in tighter over his Force signature, willing it to nothing, and after a moment the man turns to go inside.

He has, Anakin notices, a long slash of yellow over his nose. Not a human, then; a Kiffar. As he retreats into the trees Anakin makes a mental note to look up which clan the yellow stripe denotes. It might mean nothing, but the more he knows about his quarry, the better.

The staging ground is a long way away on foot, but Anakin doesn’t mind the journey. It’s exhilarating, flying through the trees, risking the huge drops below to leap from limb to limb. He’s almost disappointed when the large, clear platform comes into view.

The Imperial staging ground is a large circular block of lightweight metal wedged between the trees, not much more than a muster point for a quick gathering of troops. There’s something about it that looks out of place among the trees in a way the Wookiee roads and villages don’t; the lack of wood or natural materials, Anakin guesses.

Boba is waiting for him, along with an Imperial officer and a number of stormtroopers in green camo armour. “You saw him?” Boba asks. He hasn’t slipped back into apathy, it seems; his Force signature is buzzing with focus and intent.

Anakin nods. “A Kiffar man, looks in fighting shape. I couldn’t sense if he was a Jedi or not without revealing myself, but we can bring him in anyway, just to be certain.”

Boba nods back, and then the Imperial officer steps forward and salutes. “Lord Vader, I am Commander Arnst. My men and I stand ready to assist.”

“Thank you, Commander.” Anakin runs his senses lightly over the Commander and his troops, picking up thoughts and feelings. The stormtroopers have the familiar, similar-but-different feeling of clones, their minds focused and sure with purpose. The Commander is a mix of self-confidence and determination, with a tingle of nervous agitation running under the surface.

Anakin sighs to himself and pulls away. He always seems to get stuck with the flighty officers. “Have you brought a good number of vehicles?” he asks. “We need to surround him, quickly and decisively.”

Despite the jitters Anakin can feel lurking under the surface, Commander Arnst seems to possess no small amount of composure. “We have, Lord Vader. How would you like to proceed?” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a holomap, lighting it up between them.

Anakin surveys the stretch of forest; their position is highlighted in blue, while the treetop temple is outlined in red. “I need your men to circle around, not just out earshot but beyond the range of his Force-sense, too.” Anakin’s fingers sketch a wide arc around the temple. “About five klicks out should do it. Once all units are in position, in a rough circle,” Anakin indicates five different positions, “I want you to move in on my mark. Hard and fast, to keep the element of surprise. Surround the temple as close as you can, and if you see him, shoot to stun.” Anakin glances at Boba. “Fett and I will go inside and subdue him.”

Commander Arnst salutes. “Very good, sir. I shall prepare the men. When would you like to leave?”

Anakin checks the chronometer on his wrist. “On the hour.”

“You really think they can pull this off?” Boba asks, a few minutes later. His voice is all but hidden under the din of the troopers getting ready to move out.

Anakin looks up at the young Hand from his position on the floor. He was _trying_ to meditate; but perhaps Boba’s interruption is a sign from the Force. Meditation has never done much for him, anyway. “You would be the better judge,” he says, keeping his voice intentionally even, “They’re your brothers.”

Boba scowls, straightening from where he was leaning casually against a speeder bike. “They’re not my brothers.”

“They think of themselves as brothers, and they’re all your father’s clones. Just like you are.”

Boba spits, loud and deliberate, off to the side. “They’re nothing like me.”

Anakin suppresses a snort – for now valuing Boba’s continued cooperation over the amusement of antagonising him. There will be more than enough time for that on the ride home, after all. He turns back to the view from the edge of the platform, takes a long, deep breath in, and closes his eyes.

It’s a long moment before Boba speaks again. “Why did Lord Sidious send me on this mission?”

“He asked me to take one of his Hands. I chose you,” Anakin says without opening his eyes.

Boba is silent for a moment. “Why did you pick me?”

“Perhaps I was curious about Jango Fett’s son.”

“And?” Boba is trying to suppress it, but Anakin can feel his hopeful curiosity through the Force.

“Rude, insubordinate, childish,” Anakin lists off casually, “Though you do seem to possess the ability to focus, when it suits you.”

He hears Boba mutter something under his breath, and then both his footsteps and his Force presence recede, leaving Anakin alone to try…contemplating the wilderness, or however this is supposed to work. Or maybe he’s only supposed to focus on himself? Sidious has never really been clear; his instruction involves a lot more wielding a lightsaber and throwing around Force lightning than self-reflection. Some of the books Anakin has found, on the other hand, refer to Sith meditation, but aren’t especially illuminating. Apparently Sidious cultivates his library to cater to the same interests apparent in his teaching program.

 _Maybe you should ask Obi-Wan_. The thought flashes across his mind like a shooting star, odd and unprecipitated. The thought of asking a Jedi for advice…

Anakin shakes his head and dismisses it.

The troops are ready on time, and after synchronising their chronos, they all set off in different directions. Arnst and one trooper are going to stay behind at the staging ground, managing operations while Anakin and Boba focus on capturing the Jedi.

Once all the units have signalled they’re in position, Anakin calls Boba over to where he and Arnst are waiting on the edge of the platform. “Ready?” Anakin asks. Boba gives him a curt nod in response. “Alright. Keep an eye on everything, Commander,” he instructs, turning his back on Arnst’s quick salute to climb into the speeder.

The drive towards the temple is uneventful, both the clones and Arnst quiet over their shared radio frequency. Anakin stops the speeder a short distance from the temple, where he hopes they’ll be out of range of the Jedi’s immediate ability to sense Force signatures. “Alright,” he says over the radio, “Prepare to move on my mark. All units ready?” One by one, the clones confirm in short, clipped tones. “Good. Ready…move in.”

Anakin guns the speeder and sends it skipping forward through the trees, making an open, direct beeline to the temple. Around him in the forest, he knows the clones are doing the same. When they get close enough, he starts to hear their engines, and then the snapping and rustling of foliage as they barrel through. The temple comes suddenly in sight, and Anakin can see the clones moving into position around it, perfectly in formation. There’s no sign of the Jedi. “Prepare to bail out,” he tells Boba, voice tight.

He pulls the speeder up in front of the Temple, and Boba, perched on his seat, leaps out and lands in a roll. With a burst of the Force to propel him, Anakin jumps out of the speeder and lands next to him. No words pass between them; Anakin gestures with a blunt, flat hand to the door of the temple, and Boba follows him inside.

No longer needing to hide his Force presence, Anakin sweeps the building for the Jedi. Nothing. The man is hiding his presence, lurking in the shadows somewhere and waiting to strike. He signals for quiet and caution to Boba, and they move through the dark, near-empty rooms of the temple with slow, cautious steps. Anakin is aware of every corner, every possible hiding space. Outside, the roar of engines is constant and unbroken; apparently the Jedi hasn’t attempted to get past the clones.

There aren’t many rooms inside the temple; first they search what was obviously the main hall, with what looks like an altar at one end. Around it are small rooms that wind and curl according to how the builders incorporated the branches of the trees surrounding them. There are any number of hidden spaces from which the Jedi could leap out at them; but as they go through, clearing the rooms one by one, it looks less and less likely that he’s going to.

“He’s not here,” Boba says, when they’ve searched the entire building and reconvened in the main hall.

“So it would seem,” Anakin snaps.

Before Boba can say something snarky – it’s obvious from the tilt of his helmet that he’s going to – one of the clones says over the radio, “Sir? Lord Vader? Something’s happening out here.”

“What is it?” Anakin demands.

“Movement down below. And it sounds like…” The clone pauses for a moment before he says urgently, “It sounds like sublight engines, sir.”

Anakin makes a dash for the door, and gets there in time to see a small starship go streaking past, crashing through the canopy and leaving a large hole as it breaks out into open sky. Anakin curses as the ship dwindles into the upper atmosphere.

“Seems like he was expecting us,” Boba says.

Anakin glares over his shoulder at the boy, who’s leaning nonchalantly against the temple door. “Get in the speeder,” Anakin says. “We have to intercept him.” He turns away before Boba can reply and says into his comm, “Arnst, call all the troopers back to the staging ground.”

“Mission success, sir?” Arnst asks, eager.

“Failure,” Anakin spits, “ _Abject_ failure.”

/

 _8/3, 982 ARR  
The_ Queen’s Hope _, in orbit around undesignated moon, Wild Space_

Mon Mothma didn’t exactly send Padmé coordinates when she made her escape, but there are still ways to get in touch with her. Padmé waits about fifteen minutes for her heavily encrypted call to be picked up. When it is, she finds a rather surprised Mon waiting on the other end. “I didn’t expect to hear from you,” she says.

“I’m not on Coruscant anymore; I can risk a call.” Padmé clasps her hands together in her lap. “Also, I need to talk to you about something important.”

“I did assume this wasn’t just a social call,” Mon says with a smile. “I have a little bit of time. What’s the problem?”

Padmé takes a deep breath before beginning. “I went to see Obi-Wan."

Mon sits forward in her seat, her eyes bright with interest. “How did it go? Is he alright? Is he safe?”

“Yes. Or as far as I can tell anyway. He’s not happy, though.”

“I don’t imagine he would be.” Padmé just nods, so Mon asks, “Where is he now?”

“On a small world in Wild Space, hidden with some locals Anakin is friendly with. He should be safe there. But…” Padmé sighs. “He only knows me as Lady Vader, and when I told him about my connections to the Rebels he didn’t believe me. Understandably, of course, but you know as well as I do how much we need him. I need your help to convince him to come over to our side; to trust me.”

Mon frowns; she always gets the same look on her face when she’s thinking hard about something. “You need to prove your Rebel connections to him somehow.”

“I know he was with the Rebels for some time. Perhaps if you could send someone he knew to him, someone he trusted…”

Mon nods. “He wasn’t close to many, but there must be someone.”

“Surely a lot of people knew him?”

Mon laughs. “Of course. There’s rather a shortage of Jedi; it caused a bit of commotion within the ranks when he arrived. I never met him, though; he stayed in the Outer Rim mostly, with the combat factions. But we all knew he was there.”

“ _I_ never knew he was there,” Padmé protests.

“I don’t tell you everything, darling,” Mon says, keeping her voice light. Once again, Padmé’s connection to Vader hangs between them, silent and unspoken; always putting a limit on how much Mon trusts her, how much she reveals. Padmé understands, has resigned herself to dealing with it, but it still stings.

“So can you think of someone who might be able to convince him?”

Mon thinks for a few more seconds. “He found a girl who had the Force, took her on as an apprentice…” Mon shakes her head. “No, she’s too valuable, and not able to protect herself well enough. But I could send…” She pauses for a moment. “Yes, there’s someone I could send. Someone who might be able to get through to him in a way no one else can.”

Taking a guess, Padmé says, “Your Jedi friend?”

Mon smiles slowly. “Not much gets past you, Senator Amidala. Yes, I’ll send her. Do you have the coordinates?”

“I’ll send them over.” She motions to 3P0, who sets to work. “That will help a great deal, I’m sure. Thank you, Mon.”

Mon shakes her head. “No, thank you. Things have been in an uproar since he was captured by the Empire. Being able to assure people he’s safe has been a huge benefit to me, and I have you to thank for that.”

3P0 is still fiddling with the data transfer, so Padmé takes the time to ask, “And how are you, Mon? Are you doing alright out…wherever you are? In hiding?”

“I’ve been doing well enough these last four years,” Mon says, amused. “Constantly on the move, seeing locales I never expected to visit. The galaxy is a wide, varied place. Despite being on the run, some of the places I’ve seen…I would never have had occasion to visit them while in office.” She shakes her head, smiling. “It’s been an interesting adventure.”

“I pray every day for your safety,” Padmé tells her.

“Thank you for thinking of me.” Beeping starts on Mon’s end, and she looks down at something in the vicinity of her left elbow. “Ah, I think that’s your coordinates arriving. I’ll send them on to my Jedi friend, and I’m sure she’ll be on her way within a day.”

“Thank you, Mon. Stay safe.”

Mon smiles once, as alluring and enigmatic as ever, and cuts the call.

“Shall I bring you some tea, mistress?” 3P0 asks.

Padmé lets herself sink back in her chair. “Yes, please, 3P0. And tell Sabé to set a course to Coruscant.”

“Very good, my lady.” 3P0 totters out of the room, leaving Padmé alone with her thoughts.

She knows there’s a chance Mon’s Jedi will try to take Obi-Wan away, back to the Rebellion. Selfishly, she wants Obi-Wan to stay where he is, so she always has the option of seeing him. She wants him safe on an unknown, underdeveloped world, not on the run with the Rebel cells, at constant risk of re-capture.

 But she cannot convince him of her sincerity alone, and more than that, she needs to _trust_ Mon. There is already tension between factions in the Rebellion; distrust will lead to lies, infighting, and the entire enterprise will fall apart. Mon trusts her to be in such close proximity to Anakin, trusts her with information despite who her husband is; she makes herself vulnerable to Padmé, and so Padmé must make herself vulnerable in return.

 _A game of push and pull_. The world of politics, even between friends, even between lovers. Her life, from the moment she’d accepted the position of Queen so long ago.

 _Keep the dream alive_. She clings to the words like a talisman. And she clings to Anakin as well; or rather, to the dream of him, free, alive, happy, cleansed of the shadow the dark side hangs over him.

 _I vowed to save him, and I will_.

/

_10/3, 982 ARR  
Alum’Ta, Wild Space_

They come in the dead of night.

Obi-Wan’s sleep over the past few nights has been restless, broken by bad dreams and spells of insomnia. It feels like only moments pass between closing his eyes and Ooloe shaking him awake.

He doesn’t need hand gestures to know what’s happening; the sense of fear in her Force signature is clear enough. They’re in danger.

“Where are they?” he asks, slipping automatically into a fighting crouch.

Ooloe points upward; probably dropships, then. She motions for him to follow her, and they take off down the hallway and out into the courtyard. Ooloe stops for a moment under the cover of the veranda, checking upward. A faint thrumming, rumbling sound is just about audible, but no lights from the ships are visible through the forest canopy yet. Ooloe nods and leads him forward, across open ground. When they reach the tree with the platform, Ooloe motions for him to jump into the basket. Whoever is at the top begins lowering the weight, bringing them upward.

Haaum, Etu, Siskir and I-33 are waiting for them on the platform. The Tymin have long blaster rifles in their hands; Haaum hands another to Ooloe, then holds one out to Obi-Wan questioningly. He nods and takes it.

“Our long-range scanners picked up the Empire’s ship when it entered orbit,” I-33 tells him. “It seems to be only one Star Destroyer. With luck, they don’t know the Tymin are technologically advanced enough to have long-range scanning equipment, so they think they have the element of surprise.”

“There are five of us, I-33,” Obi-Wan says. “I think they can still be confident in their odds.”

“Don’t discount me yet, master,” I-33 tells him, holding up one of his hands. It takes a moment in the dark, but Obi-Wan looks closer and realizes I-33 has swapped his human-style hand for a blaster attachment.

Obi-Wan blinks. “I…didn’t know you had that, I-33.”

“Lord Vader does like his droids to be able to defend themselves.”

“I see.” Obi-Wan turns back to the platform to find only Ooloe; the others have disappeared, probably into the branches of the trees surrounding them. Obi-Wan goes to one knee next to her at the edge of the platform; the roar of dropship engines is clear now, their lights visible winks between the distant foliage. “How do you want to do this?” he asks.

Ooloe makes a series of quick hand gestures. “Hold our position and watch them, see what they do,” I-33 translates.

Obi-Wan nods and takes a better grip on his rifle. “That sits well enough with me.”

The dropships land a short distance away, in the same clearing both Padmé and Anakin used for their ships. When Obi-Wan closes his eyes and extends his senses, he can feel at least twenty stormtroopers, along with two officers and three pilots. “Twenty-five hostiles,” he tells Ooloe. She nods, expression unchanging. She looks composed, almost calm, and despite the current of fear Obi-Wan can feel running under the surface, she is a solid and confident presence in the Force beside him. Collected, in control of herself. “Thank you for defending me,” Obi-Wan says, a sudden rush of unfamiliar emotion pulling the words out of him.

Ooloe betrays no reaction but a slight quirk in the corners of her lips.

It isn’t long before the stormtroopers arrive at the edge of the compound, creeping in, keeping low to the ground, cautious and near-silent. They form a line along the western edge of the courtyard, seemingly unaware that their quarry waits in the trees above rather than in the dark buildings.

Ooloe shakes her head infinitesimally. They will wait.

Obi-Wan sights down the length of his rifle, checking the distance on his shot. The nearest stormtrooper is well within range, only-

A wave of Darkness hits him like an ocean breaker. He almost drops the rifle, gasping for air.

He’s here. _He’s here_.

Ooloe’s grip is like steel on his arm, her hand over his mouth. She shoves him back flat on the platform, her face close to his, her eyes blazing with question.

Obi-Wan pushes her hand away and gasps, “He’s here. The _Emperor_.”

Ooloe’s face goes blank in the same moment the stormtroopers begin firing.

They’re not aiming for the buildings, but for the trees and the platform, as if they know- but of course they do. Sidious can sense their Force signatures, knows exactly where they are; the thick foliage is no cover, not against him. Obi-Wan hears one of the others scream, a grating, inhuman sound. Ooloe echoes it with a low, anguished moan.

Closing his eyes and _focusing_ , pushing through the cloying cloud of dark energy that pulses sickeningly all around them, Obi-Wan can make out the other Tymin’s Force signatures. But only two; Etu is gone. Siskir is hurt, and even as Obi-Wan touches his mind his injured leg fails under him, sending him crashing down through the branches to the forest floor. His signature winks out.

Pulling himself back into the real world, Obi-Wan grips Ooloe’s shoulders. “You have to go, get out of here, save yourself.”

Ooloe cuts one flat hand through the air, the word _No_ coming as clearly from her mind as if she were another Jedi, speaking to him through a Force bond.

“You _must_. Etu and Siskir are already gone! I don’t want anyone else dying for me.” She tries to pull away and Obi-Wan tightens his grip. “I’m not worth your life, Ooloe. I’m not worth _anyone’s_ life.”

Ooloe glares at him; I-33 says from above, “That’s not true!” Obi-Wan isn’t sure if the droid is saying it himself or if he missed a hand gesture.

“You can’t fight him! He’s a Sith Lord!” Obi-Wan shouts.

Ooloe makes a series of short, sharp hand gestures that I-33 translates as, “I have my duty!”

“You have to live. You have to…” Obi-Wan searches for some reason that will make her go, something more important than protecting him. “He wants me, he’ll take me unharmed if I give myself up.” A thought hits him. “And you must go to Vader, you must tell him what happened and where I am. Then he can rescue me.” Not an ideal scenario, but Vader is, objectively, better than Sidious. And it might be enough to make Ooloe leave.

She stares at him, still and watchful as a cat, and he can feel uncertainty running through her.

In that moment Haaum lands on the other side of platform, almost falling from the impact. Her rifle is gone, blood running in great gouts from a horrible wound on her shoulder. She reaches out to them, gesturing something, and Ooloe rises; but before she’s even on her feet, blaster shots ring out. Ooloe lets out a wordless scream as Haaum falls away into the branches, her face going slack.

Obi-Wan whips around to face I-33. “Take her and go!” he yells.

I-33 whirs, his mechanisms clicking as some process goes on inside him. Obi-Wan isn’t sure whose orders are given priority now, his or Ooloe’s, but he suspects-

“I am bound to protect you, master,” I-33 says, confirming his fears.

“Override code AG1-267,” Obi-Wan barks, “Transfer highest protection priority from subject Obi-Wan Kenobi to subject Ooloe.”

I-33 buzzes once, then says, “Very good, master,” and moves towards Ooloe.

The Tymin turns to him, her face a mask of anger, but I-33 barely moves when she lands a kick in the centre of his torso. He must be a lot heavier and sturdier than he looks. He picks Ooloe up as easily as a bag of flour, and jumps away with her into the trees.

Obi-Wan gets one good look at her face before they disappear; her expression curled into a furious, betrayed snarl.

 _Hate me_ , he thinks, _but you will live_.

Then he stands, in full view of the stormtroopers below. “I’m here!” he shouts down, “Don’t shoot! I surrender!”

The stormtroopers don’t fire, but they don’t lower their weapons either. An officer stands at the back of the crowd, one hand held high, looking to his left for further direction.

And next to him, robed in folds of flowing black cloth, is the subject of all Obi-Wan’s most vicious nightmares.

“Jedi,” Sidious says. He barely seems to raise his voice. “What a noble sacrifice.”

“I’m tired of running,” Obi-Wan says, and even as he says it he knows it’s the truth. The terror he feels has receded a little now; because it is, finally, over. Whatever he said to Ooloe, he knows the truth. No one can rescue him from Sidious, and the Dark Lord of the Sith will surely kill him. It will, at long last, be the end.

Even from this far away, Obi-Wan can see Sidious smile. “Very soon, Jedi, you may find the thought of running to be your very dearest wish.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating? Me? It's more likely than you think.

_8/3, 982 ARR_  
_Kashyyyk, Mytaranor Sector, Mid Rim_

Luckily for Anakin, there are three Star Destroyers in orbit.

He lets Boba drive the speeder back to the main outpost where they left the gunship. A few sentences exchanged with Arnst reveals that one of the capital ships is directly above their position right now, and he forwards the frequency on which Anakin can contact them.

A nasal female voice answers his call. “This is senior comms officer Darle on board the _Pride of Arkania_ ; acknowledge receipt of your high priority code. Go ahead.”

“This is Commander Vader. I need an intercept on a spacebound vessel leaving atmo from my position, ASAP.”

There is a pause, then Officer Darle says, “Command received and understood, Commander. Moving to intercept. We will keep you informed.”

“Good. Vader out.”

“You think they’ll get him?” Boba asks, swerving to avoid a thick tree branch.

“Maybe. At the very least, they’ll get a better read on his ship, so we can put a bounty out on it.” Anakin grits his teeth. Hunting Jedi has never been simple, but he _hates_ it when it goes to kriff like this.

The _Pride of Arkania_ calls him back just as he and Boba are boarding the gunship. “Commander, this is Asris Bridged, captain of the _Pride of Arkania_ ,” a woman’s voice says. “I am sorry to report that the ship you commanded us to intercept got away; we couldn’t re-position our ship in time to catch it with our tractor beam. We did manage to get a fairly detailed scan of the target, however.”

Anakin clenches his jaw and breathes in, out through his nose a few times, trying to calm his temper. It was a long shot that the Star Destroyer would be able to catch the fleeing Jedi; he shouldn’t lose control. “Prepare for my arrival, Captain,” he says, “We’re in a _Beryl_ -class long-range gunship. Ascending from planet now.”

“Very good, sir. We will be awaiting your arrival.”

The ride up to the Destroyer is tense and silent; Boba seems to have the sense not to make any smart comments, given the mood Anakin’s in.

Captain Bridged meets them in the hangar. She’s human, tall and pale, with a somewhat square freckled face and a shock of red hair. She gives Anakin a neat, sharp salute and gets straight to business. “My officers are already calculating possible destinations, based on the ship’s trajectory,” she says as she leads them to the bridge. “I assume you’ll want to commandeer my ship, sir?”

“Yes,” Anakin says. “That ship is carrying a high priority target. We need to secure it as soon as possible.”

“Very good, sir. I’ll inform Central Command of the change, and our course, once we set one.”

“What did your scans tell you about it?” Anakin asks.

“It’s a 578-R model,” Bridged says. “Modified for speed. Comms should be talking to the port authorities now, seeing if they ever received the ship’s credentials. I doubt it, given where the ship was hidden, but we’re pursuing every angle.”

She does, Anakin has to admit, seem competent. “Very good, Captain.” The turbolift shoots them up toward the bridge, and there’s a moment of tense silence which no one moves to fill. Anakin is too busy berating himself for losing the Jedi; Bridged keeps a respectful silence. Whatever Boba’s thinking, he hasn’t spoken since they left Kashyyyk’s surface.

When they reach the bridge, Bridged strides over to one of the comm stations immediately, asking the officer on duty about his progress. Anakin and Boba are left alone, aimless among a throng of naval officers completing their tasks with quick, smart efficiency.

“So I guess we’re stuck guessing which hyperspace route he took,” Boba says.

“If he didn’t make a random jump just to throw us off,” Anakin says, folding his arms.

He can see Boba looking at him sidelong in his peripheral vision. “You haven’t failed much before, right?” he asks.

Anakin feels his shoulders stiffen before he can stop it. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I feel like this Jedi is challenging you. Did the others just fall into your lap?”

“No,” Anakin says, biting the word out. “I spent three months tracking one of them down.”

“But?” Boba presses.

 _But there aren’t many Jedi left who’re even half this competent. Most would never have seen me coming._ That, Anakin reasons, must have been his error. Either the Jedi sensed them coming when they moved in, caught a trace of him while he was doing recon on the temple, or their contact betrayed them.

“But this one got lucky,” he snaps, not willing to show any weakness to the precocious young Hand.

The memory of the treacherous Wookies fresh in his mind, Anakin keys in Commander Arnst’s frequency. He answers after only a few seconds. “Arnst here, go ahead.”

“Commander, this is Vader. The Wookies of the village closest to the Jedi’s hideout were helping him; they’re traitors to the Empire. Deal with them however you see fit.”

“All of them, Commander?” Arnst asks.

Anakin considers for a second, then says, “All of them.”

 

 _11/3 982 ARR_  
_The_ Queen’s Hope _, Jafdi system, Expansion Region_

“We’ve received a message, milady,” Sabé says, poking her head around Padmé’s door.

“While we were in hyperspace?” Sabé nods. “From whom?”

“Senator Organa, milady. It was sent around eleven hours ago from Coruscant. Eirtaé has routed it to your private holocomm.”

“Thank you.” Sabé disappears, and Padmé turns to her holocomm. With the press of a button its soft blue light flickers to life, and she brings up the message from Bail. His familiar, reassuring figure springs into being.

“Padmé,” he says. His face is pinched with worry. “The game is up; there’s a warrant out for your arrest. You’re accused of harbouring enemies of the Empire, so I assume the Emperor knows about Kenobi. You can’t come back to Coruscant; get to Mon, if you can, or get somewhere safe. I don’t know how long it’ll be before they come for me, but I’ll keep my head down and try to ride this out. I’ll contact you again once I know it’s safe.” He smiles a little. “Good luck out there, Padmé. Keep yourself safe.” He swallows, then says thickly, “Keep the dream alive.”

The holocomm flickers and stills, Bail’s face hanging suspended in space. Padmé stares at it, feeling strangely calm. There’s none of the panic she has always expected to feel upon the revelation that her deception has been discovered. She has always known she would be found out one day; it has insulated her, perhaps. Prepared her. She always knew this day was coming, so now that it’s finally here, it’s not too much of a shock.

She presses the call button, and a moment later Sabé reappears. “Milady?”

“Bad news, Sabé; we can’t go back to Coruscant. We’ve finally been discovered.”

Sabé blows out a heavy breath. “I suppose it was only a matter of time, milady.”

“We need to make for the nearest safe location. Once we’re there, we’ll get in touch with Mon.”

“We’re only an hour or two away from Vendaxa, milady. I think there’s a small Rebel garrison in the wilds there.”

“Very good. Chart us a course.”

Bowing, Sabé disappears, leaving Padmé alone with her thoughts.

Inevitably, they turn to Anakin and Obi-Wan.

Palpatine knows they’ve been hiding a Jedi; that doesn’t necessarily mean he knows that she went to visit him. He doesn’t necessarily know where Obi-Wan is.

But he could do. She wants more than anything to turn the ship about, to race back to Alum’Ta and make sure Obi-Wan is still safe, but she can’t risk it. If Palpatine is having her followed somehow, either he already knows Obi-Wan’s location, or going back would only make it easier for him to find out. She has to follow the plan she’s always had in place, and that means going to the Rebels.

Of course, that also means abandoning Anakin. Unless he follows her - and that is, in fact, a likely possibility - she probably won’t be able to contact him. They have a secured, encrypted commlink to each other, but she has no idea where he is. She could end up calling him in the middle of a meeting with Palpatine. She’ll have to time it with care if she risks calling him, or she’ll have to wait for him to find her - so long as he doesn’t think she’s betrayed and left him.

 _Even if he does come to that conclusion, he might come after me anyway_. A small, optimistic part of her hopes that her defection from the Empire and the revelation that she’s in league with the Rebellion might inspire Anakin to leave the Empire to follow her, but she knows that outcome is far from certain. It’s hard, to know she has to sit back, wait and see what happens, but she didn’t get to where she is now by being rash and impatient. She can wait. She can play the game.

She feels the ship accelerate, then the tug of the jump to hyperspace. Within an hour or two they’ll be on Vendaxa; and then a new chapter of her life will begin.

 

 _Unknown_  
_Emperor Palpatine’s Imperial Flagship_

The last thing Obi-Wan remembers about Alum’Ta is falling. Something hit him in the neck, and his knees buckled, sending him tumbling over the edge of the platform. His mind sank into darkness before he hit the ground, but judging by his lack of a broken neck, Sidious caught him with the Force before impact.

The Sith Lord leaves him alone for what feels like days, locked in a prison cell. Apparently being Emperor of the galaxy means you have better things to do than pay attention to your captured Jedi. Obi-Wan wanders through a fuzzy, incorporeal dreamscape, drugged to the gills with some mind-addling substance, seeing memories and monsters and sometimes just staring at the wall for hours on end, thinking of nothing.

After an eternity, Sidious appears in the cell. Obi-Wan stares up at him, not moving. He no longer feels fear; the drug combines with his growing fatalism to make him numb, unable to care about Sidious’ plans or his own life. The Sith Lord will kill him, or he will torture him, or he will not; what will be will be.

“Do you know, Obi-Wan Kenobi, what this is?” Sidious asks, drawing something small from his voluminous sleeve.

A little pyramid of metal and glass sits on the palm of Sidious’ hand as he holds it out to Obi-Wan. Something inside glows a dull, deep red, and even drugged as he is, Obi-Wan feels a flicker of Darkness through the Force.

“No,” he says.

Sidious smiles. “Don’t worry,” he says, setting it down on the small table next to Obi-Wan’s bed, “Soon you will be intimately acquainted.”

When Sidious touches the top of the pyramid it breaks apart, folding down and revealing the sluggishly pulsating red crystal at its heart. Obi-Wan feels the touch of the Dark Side intensify; then something black and slick as oil slips past his tattered mental defences and into his head.

 _No_ , he protests, trying to shove the _thing_ out, but it evades him, slipping this way and that like an eel.

 _How delightful_ , a voice inside his head says, _Another Jedi to play with after all this time._

_Who are you?_

_Did you have time to complete your history lessons, young Jedi? Maybe you would recognize my name; I was a very famous Sith lord, once upon a time._

_I won’t recognize your name if you don’t_ tell _me._

The Sith’s laugh makes little shivers of revulsion chase across his skin. _Maybe you have heard, little Jedi_ , he says, _Of Naga Sadow, storied and mighty Dark Lord of the Sith_.

Obi-Wan _has_ heard that name, if only once or twice. He can’t hide the swell of apprehension within him, not with the Sith ghost - or whatever it is - right there inside his head.

 _There will be more than enough time for you to get to know me,_ Sadow says, _First, I must know about_ you.

 _For what purpose?_ Obi-Wan asks. The drug has not stolen all of his power to reason and make connections; if Sidious is bothering to use something as precious as a Sith artifact on him, then he must have a purpose.

 _Sidious tires of watching Jedi go to the gallows_ , Sadow says, _He believes he has found an effective way to Turn them. I, of course, am only too happy to help._

Despite himself, Obi-Wan snorts. _There will be no Turning me, Sith Lord. Do you think I hid so long from the Empire for nothing? Had I wanted to join the Sith, I would have come to Sidious years ago._

_You do not yet know how persuasive I can be, Jedi._

_Do your worst. I don’t care_.

And he truly, honestly doesn’t. He accepted his fate the moment he showed himself to Sidious on Alum’Ta; now it’s just a matter of waiting for the end.

 _You would welcome your death_. For the first time, Sadow sounds unsure.

_I have accepted it. There is no one living who means as much to me as those I have lost; when I am one with the Force, I will see them again._

_Interesting._ The spirit of Sadow stops speaking for a time. Obi-Wan’s attempts to push him from his mind are unsuccessful; Sadow slips past him like water through his fingers, never solid enough to catch hold of, never in one place long enough for Obi-Wan to push against him.

 _To determine your future, we must look to your past,_ Sadow says after a while. _Come, let us look for those lost loved ones you spoke of_.

The dull, flat grey ceiling of the cell dissolves before Obi-Wan’s eyes, leaving him hanging in a featureless void. The darkness stretches, endless, all around him.

_Hello?_

Deep red light flares before his eyes, and Obi-Wan can make out the rough shape of a humanoid figure. The apparition gains detail as Obi-Wan watches, forming into a man with a strong, powerful build and a stern, aristocratic face. He seems human, but the little growths of skin that hang on each cheek, framing his mouth, proclaim a Near-Human heritage. _So now we may speak, face to face,_ Naga Sadow says, his strange red mouth curling up in a smile. _I wish to see what set you on this path, Obi-Wan Kenobi. When did the Jedi become the vagrant?_

Without meaning to, Obi-Wan thinks of that night, over twenty years ago, the one that started it all. He feels Sadow’s presence pounce forward, leaping on the memory and pinning it; he closes his eyes, trying to push the Sith Lord away.

When he opens them again, he’s standing in a darkened bedroom on Mandalore.

His younger self is lying on the bed, fast asleep. He’s curled up on his side, tucked in around himself, looking sweet and vulnerable and so achingly _young._

 _This is the night it began_. Sadow’s voice is close at hand; Obi-Wan turns to find him standing next to him, his form more corporeal in the light of the vision. He looks like a real being now, rather than a creature of light and fire, but his skin is still red. _You’re a real Sith_ , Obi-Wan says, _Not just a Sith Lord, but biologically a Sith as well._

 _A hybrid,_ Sadow says. He sounds distracted.

Before Obi-Wan can ask what he means, the door opens and Qui-Gon steps into the room. Even now the sight of him sparks a dull flare of pain in Obi-Wan’s chest. He can still remember this night so clearly. This isn’t the first time he’s relived these events, seeing them again and again, wondering what he could have done differently, what he might have changed. _This is old ground, Sadow_ , he says as Qui-Gon leans over his younger self’s sleeping form. _I’ve tortured myself with this vision many more times than you could._

_Maybe. But as they say, one must know one’s enemy._

“Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispers. He rests a hand over the young Obi-Wan’s mouth to stifle any noise. “Get up. Be silent. They’re coming for us.”

Young Obi-Wan’s eyes flash in the darkness. “Who’s coming, Master?” he asks when Qui-Gon removes his hand.

“It will take too long to explain, padawan. Just be ready-”

In the outer room, there’s the sound of a soft booted footfall.

Qui-Gon drops into a crouch, motioning for silence, his lightsaber already in his hand. Obi-Wan holds his breath, nervous despite already knowing what will happen. Both Qui-Gon and his younger self watch the door, feeling rather than hearing their pursuers come closer.

The thick, black barrel of a blaster rifle eases through the crack between the door and the jamb. Qui-Gon and young Obi-Wan both crouch, still as stone in the darkness, as the trooper behind the blaster nudges the door open. Before it’s halfway open Qui-Gon leaps, his lightsaber crackling into life and swinging in a neat arc toward the trooper’s abdomen.

The clone screams as the plasma beam bisects him, the sound trailing off into a gurgle. A salvo of blaster fire goes off in the other room, the other clones opening fire as Qui-Gon swings back behind the door. “Out the window, Obi-Wan,” he snaps, pointing.

Young Obi-Wan doesn’t hesitate, throwing the huge sash window up and jumping to crouch on the sill. He turns and looks at Qui-Gon, waiting, and his master closes and locks the door on the advancing clones and crosses the room in one leap. “Down, and onto the landing strip,” he instructs, terse but not nervous. “Go for the Concordian ambassador’s _Spectre_ -class.”

“But the Duchess-”

“Will have to end this war on her own,” Qui-Gon says. “We have been betrayed, Obi-Wan; we must think of ourselves now.” His head twitches toward the door. “They’re setting charges. Go, Obi-Wan!”

Young Obi-Wan leaps from the window, followed by Qui-Gon, and the vision dissolves into the dark void once again.

 _The clones betrayed you_ , Sadow says.

 _They betrayed all of us,_ Obi-Wan says, his thoughts laced with bitterness. _I used to feel sorry for them, but Order 66 proved they’re nothing but drones, loyal to protocol, not people. You can program them just like droids._ He stops, suddenly aware that he might be revealing too much.

 _You hate them?_ When Obi-Wan doesn’t answer, Sadow looks intrigued. _Very well. Let us move on._

Sadow blinks through Obi-Wan’s memories like a shooting star, taking in the parade of backwater planets and shady characters and rundown starships. _I begin to see why you evaded the Empire for so long, Jedi_ , Sadow says, flicking through the visions like he might examine a holocatalogue. _But your master was not so wise, hmm? He still sought to help people where he could. That is what got him killed._

Obi-Wan says nothing. If Sadow wants to know about Qui-Gon’s death, he can see it for himself.

The vision opens halfway into their escape. Obi-Wan can see the refugee ship in the distance; the last of the Togruta colonists are hurrying on board.

Qui-Gon and the younger Obi-Wan are waiting on the other side of the landing strip, by the gates that lead back down into the compound. The sound of running, booted feet echoes up the stairwell.

Young Obi-Wan looks very different now; older, wary, suspicious. His clothes are old and somewhat ragged, his hair in a small shaggy ponytail. He looks the archetype of a young, deadbeat spacer.

Qui-Gon has styled himself similarly, but it’s not as convincing on him. Maybe it’s in the way he carries himself, or the fire in his eyes, but Qui-Gon still looks like a Jedi pretending to a be a rough and tumble spacer.

“Get ready, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon says, “We must give the colonists time to escape.”

 _Even with your own lives in danger, he risked your safety for the benefit of others,_ Sadow sneers.

 _He always said his own life was worth nothing if he kept it at the expense of others’._ Obi-Wan glares at Sadow. _He was a_ true _Jedi._

_Unlike you._

Obi-Wan can’t answer that with scorn; Sadow is right, and they both know it. Obi-Wan has never been, _will_ never be, a Jedi equal to Qui-Gon Jinn.

The sound of running stormtrooper boots comes to an abrupt stop. Qui-Gon and both Obi-Wan’s tense up. Despite knowing what’s coming, Obi-Wan doesn’t want to see this again. This moment is burnt into his memory; he could close his eyes, and he would still see these events play out.

 _So_ that _is what killed Qui-Gon Jinn_ , Sadow says.

Obi-Wan opens his eyes, knowing what he will see. A tall figure in black has appeared between the gates. As they watch, he draws a double-bladed lightsaber and activates it, the blood red light spilling over his black-and-red patterned skin.

 _Sidious’ apprentice_.

 _You don’t need to get attached,_ Obi-Wan says, _He didn’t survive the fight, either._

Qui-Gon leaps forward, his swinging lightsaber met by the Sith’s red blade. “Run, Obi-Wan!” he yells.

Young Obi-Wan hesitates, his own lightsaber drawn, as Qui-Gon and the Sith exchange blows. He takes a step forward, as if to engage the Sith as well, then glances back toward the refugee ship.

“Obi-Wan! Go!” Qui-Gon yells, blocking another swing.

The Sith manages to knock Qui-Gon’s blade aside and throws out a hand, pushing the older Jedi backward in an arc across the room. Then he turns, grinning, to Obi-Wan.

 _Bold_ , Sadow says, as young Obi-Wan activates his lightsaber and leaps toward the Sith. _To take on a Sith while so young, even a sloppy, poorly trained Sith such as this. How old were you?_

_Eighteen._

Obi-Wan and the Sith’s lightsabers meet hard, the sound echoing around the room. It’s clear within the first few moves that the Sith is better than young Obi-Wan, but he keeps going, keeps barely blocking the red ‘saber. They exchange blows until the Sith pushes Obi-Wan away and backflips up into the air, landing a few paces away. “You’re _nothing_ , Jedi scum,” he hisses. “I’m going to _crush_ you, then _gut_ your pitiful master.”

Young Obi-Wan changes stance, bringing his feet closer together and turning his body slightly sideways. Both his arms hover a small distance from his body; his lightsaber is angled down across his legs while his free hand hovers behind, fingers closed, pointing to the ground.

It’s a classic Makashi opening form. It’s also a challenge; a young, foolish Jedi saying, _Come and get me, Sith._

Obi-Wan can still remember his shaking hands, his weak knees, as he took that open stance. He wanted the Sith to focus on him, wanted to give Qui-Gon time to recover. If one of them had to die, he wanted more than anything for Qui-Gon to survive.

Instead of attacking, the Sith reaches forward with one hand and makes a grasping motion in the air. Young Obi-Wan begins to choke, one hand flying to his throat. The Sith grins, the expression savage and feral, stepping closer as he tightens his hand, as Obi-Wan’s feet leave the floor. “Foolish child,” the Sith hisses, “Now you will die, whimpering and begging and _pathetic_.”

Young Obi-Wan clutches at his throat, legs kicking. Obi-Wan remembers how his vision began to fade at the edges, how panic screamed in his chest. And then the pressure had dropped away.

He hadn’t seen it then, choking and coughing on his knees, but now he sees the green plasma blade burst through the centre of the Sith’s chest, hears his screech as Qui-Gon skewers the creature on his lightsaber.

What his younger self did see, and what he watches with blurred eyes again now, is the moment afterward, when the Sith snarled and drove one of the blades of his saberstaff backward, straight through Qui-Gon’s stomach.

“ _No!_ ” young Obi-Wan screams, struggling to his feet. He jumps over the crumpling Sith and to his master’s side. “Master- Qui-Gon- _no_ -”

“Run, Obi-Wan,” Qui-Gon whispers, his grip tight on young Obi-Wan’s arm, “You must run, the troopers will be coming.”

“I can’t,” young Obi-Wan sobs, clutching his master’s shoulders, “I can’t leave you, I can’t leave you here-”

“Obi-Wan.” Qui-Gon reaches up, his hand shaking, and touches young Obi-Wan’s wet cheek. “You must go. You must _live_.”

There’s a shout from the gates. Young Obi-Wan’s head snaps up, catching sight of the stormtrooper standing there, pointing at him. “They’ve killed the Commander!” the clone yells.

“You will always be a Jedi, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” Qui-Gon whispers, his voice even softer now. His eyes are becoming unfocused; he’s slipping away. “Go now. Please.”

Young Obi-Wan leans down and presses a kiss to his master’s forehead. Obi-Wan remembers how cold his skin felt, how he had to force himself not to just curl up around him and let the stormtroopers take them both.

A shot _pings_ off the permacrete a metre to young Obi-Wan’s left, and with one last look at Qui-Gon’s closing eyes, he jumps up and begins sprinting towards the edge of the platform and the open sky. The refugee ship has already left; Obi-Wan didn’t notice it leave when he first experienced this moment, and he didn’t notice it this time either. The stormtroopers are pouring in through the gates, blasterfire scattering across the ground around young Obi-Wan’s fleeing figure, some of it being deflected by his lightsaber. He reaches the edge of the platform and stops, looking out over the expanse of forest very, _very_ far below.

Obi-Wan and Sadow have moved without noticeable effort to be right by young Obi-Wan’s side, and they can see the momentary hesitation as he considers jumping from the platform. He glances back - Obi-Wan clearly remembers that last, fleeting glimpse of Qui-Gon’s prone form, surrounded by stormtroopers - and then he launches himself forward, falling very fast toward the canopy below.

 _What happened next?_ Sadow asks as the vision fades.

Obi-Wan can’t think of much Sadow will gain over him by knowing the answer, so he says, _I didn’t stop myself in time, and I broke my arm. I still managed to escape the stormtroopers, though. When my arm healed, I snuck aboard a smuggler’s ship to get off planet._

_You weren’t caught?_

_Oh, I was. The captain took pity on me, and dropped me off at the next spaceport instead of throwing me out the airlock._

_And so your wandering began._

Between one blink and the next, Obi-Wan finds himself back in his cell, staring up at the blank grey ceiling. His head feels heavy as a stone; he can’t tell if it’s an aftereffect of the visions, or if the drug has been reapplied.

 _This was illuminating, Obi-Wan Kenobi,_ Sadow’s voice says. _I look forward to our next meeting_. With that, his slick, dark presence withdraws from Obi-Wan’s mind, leaving him alone in his own head once again.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Banks' song 'Drowning'.


End file.
